


Hindsight

by RedRuse



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, BAMF Tim Drake, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Bat Family, Blindness, But Tim doesn't let it, Canon-Typical Violence, Career Ending Injuries, Cassandra Cain is Black Bat, Crime Fighting, Damian Wayne is Robin, Detectives, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Explicit Language, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason is a Dork, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mystery, Near Death Experiences, Organized Crime, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pets, Rating May Change, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Slow Burn, Stephanie Brown is Batgirl, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 66,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRuse/pseuds/RedRuse
Summary: After a mission goes wrong - unexpected, unplanned, miscalculated, unaccounted for - Tim is flying blind. On top of relearning how to be the Red Robin with his new affliction, the genius detective lives in fear that his status as a capable hero would be revoked by those around him.Well, maybe except for one. A big pesky bird with a bright red crest and a thing for guns.Tim must take it upon himself to face the facts of the mission as the loose ends get tangled. With nothing adding up, he'll have to shut it down permanently if he wants to make sure his fears remain unwarranted. If he wants to keep the laughter out of his family's ears.





	1. I Can Adapt

**Author's Note:**

> Another guilty pleasure, really. I love Tim so much, I love Jason so much, and I love Batman fics (and, yes, I love JayTim). I've wanted to do something for a while now, and I suddenly got the inspiration for it.  
> Here's to hoping I can do right in adding to the collective. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and that you'll stick with me through this story.

Gotham was alive with a clamor unlike any other. The air was crisp, biting on the exposed flesh of his cheeks that was sure to turn them pink; his wild, swooping dives through the city didn't help either, but as a whole the feeling was exhilarating. Like the veins on the back of his hand or the curvatures of his own palm, Red Robin _knows_ these streets. He practically grew up running through them as if they were a maze and he was a mouse searching for cheese. Preferably swiss, but only because that was what he was craving at the moment. Even after taking up the mantle of Robin, the raven never anticipated that he'd come to recognize many of the minute details. It was a new development.

He counted down the seconds until landing the moment he retracted his grappling hook. Considering the speed of his swing and the peak of the arch he had reached - not to mention how high he had aimed to begin with - his first estimate was four seconds.

_One._

_Two._

_Three--_

His whole body tensed as it simply _felt_ the pressure of closeness, the heat radiating that contrasted with the air. Bending at the knees, Red Robin tucked into a quick roll. When he popped back up and scuffed the underside of his boots against the gritty rooftop, the little system in his ear began to chirp.

He tapped the underside of his gauntlet and accepted the call. “Go.”

  


“Silent alarm triggered, armed robbery,” Oracle rattled off, “potential hostage situation. Andru Street and Riverside Drive, building 2300. Top floor - penthouse.”

He didn’t realize he was tensely waiting for her to finish her report until his knees locked up beneath him. 

“Head of the new Gotham Restoration Corp, Connor Burgess. Still running the suspect’s face through the criminal database.”

_'Come on… Come on…'_

Normally, Red Robin would’ve been on his way at the mention of Andru Street alone. 

Despite knowing this city so painfully well, it was still difficult to retrace his steps and pinpoint the exact corners he had cut in his flight. He edged to the corner of the roof and acted as if he were priming his grapple for another shot. Oracle could see him - no doubt about that. Best to act busy.

“Roughly two miles from your position.”

_'There it is.'_

It had only been a few seconds, but in those few seconds the vigilante had gotten a sense of his location. A solid one; it just happened that a police car was leaving the station, alarm suddenly cutting through the other noise from his right.

Old Gotham. 

Connor Burgess wasn’t an unfamiliar name. He had been popping up on the news recently, trying to restore some of Burnley’s inner streets into something more modern, something he deemed would be “safer”. Therefore, not too difficult to pin down where he might’ve lived. 

A penthouse in the Financial District, Red Robin reasoned, good for looking out over the rises his group soaked into like water.

Another tap on the gauntlet of his right arm triggered a near-silent automated voice to comment in his ear, far too quiet for even Oracle to catch in their open comm-link: “Southwest.”

He lifted his arm and pointed his grapple to the south-eastern side of town. Without a care in the world, he fired off into the dark, trusting blindly that Gotham’s aesthetic would provide something for him to latch onto.

There was a tug, the line went taut. Like that, Red Robin was off.

 

**.**

 

Potential hostage situation was a complete and total understatement. Oracle had long since gone silent in his ear, likely communicating with the other Bats that patrolled the city, keeping tabs where they were needed. She wouldn’t speak again unless Red Robin explicitly required backup. For that, he was grateful; with or without a second voice in his ear, handling the situation was going to be tough.

The intruder’s voice rattled through the windows of the penthouse, strong but hysterical. Red Robin perched himself on the fire escape and wrapped his deep, black cape around the reds and yellows of his suit. Normally, his sudden appearance would’ve attracted unwanted attention, but there was just so much tension that it masked him as easily as the darkness did.

He listened first; it didn’t seem like Connor Burgess was in any immediate danger. He could bide his time.

“—it’s like you’re trying to flush us out!” the intruder was shrieking, “You can’t kick us out of our homes, you can’t expect us to pay for the demolition! I lost my job when you ordered for the entire _block_ to be shut down for your renovations!”

A monologue he was likely repeating. His breaths were shallow and forced, his pitch high. It must’ve been easy work to get in, as Red Robin couldn’t detect any _real_ security systems in place. Just the one that had been caught by Oracle.

Really? In Gotham? Connor Burgess couldn’t have possibly been a local - that was just too stupid of a move.

Which, honestly, must’ve been one of the things that angered the intruder. Still, he wasn’t making any effort to get closer or actually attack the man.

Slow and fluid like lava, Red Robin extended both hands out. A quick burst of vibrations through the palms of his gloves said to ease up on his momentum just seconds before fingers could reach the glass. Testing carefully, he felt around for some kind of latch or lip he could work with. 

A buzz on only the right side of his right forearm said that there was something protruding from the standard flatness of the window pane. He reached for it, ears perking when he heard something click.

Something heavy and metal, might he add.

A gun. Cocked and loaded. Safety off.

_'Uh oh...'_

“I’m starting with the top of the food chain!” the intruder declared, “I’ll get rid- I’ll ki-kill all of those that try to kick me out of my home!”

He’d have to look into the exact parameters of Connor Burgess’ work when he got back home…

  


Red Robin clicked his tongue as the window pushed inward on a hinge, slipping into the penthouse immediately afterwards. Specifically, the kitchen. He could smell the frequented coffee pot on the counter to his right and could feel the swollen tiles of linoleum under his soles.

The intruder wasn’t shooting yet, but he was definitely close. Nothing else left his mouth. If his stutter was any indication - hell, if his hysterical screaming was anything to go by - then he was trigger happy. He didn’t _sound_ like the type that would actually shoot someone despite his threats, but he was paranoid. For good reason, actually, as one of the Bats was currently standing a few feet away in the dim lighting.

Any sudden moves and he’d almost definitely be shocked into pulling the trigger on his hostage.

With steps as silent as Batman’s, with minute vibrations racking through his suit and alerting him to the bar stools, the strip where linoleum turned to hardwood, the trash can that _almost_ whirred open when he passed, and, of course, a whole entire wall, Red Robin picked his way across the open floor plan of the living room. Burgess didn’t notice him - hadn’t even uttered a word the whole time, curled up on the couch and trembling just as badly as his attacker - but that only benefited the vigilante.

He paused a beat and focused on those vibrations. They were heaviest on the front of his chest, bunched at the right pectoral yet still far away. Very little else was brought to his attention so he figured that was where the couch was - _'Ten feet,'_ he decided, _'Maybe twelve.'_ If the situation had been any less stressful, he would’ve wondered how on earth he had gone unnoticed by both men.

Then the floorboards creaked with the intruder shifting his weight.

On the left. Eleven o’clock.

Hoping to _god_ that there wasn’t a coffee table waiting in the darkness for him to slap his shin into it, Red Robin finally moved.

It happened in a rush. He was lunging forward, tackling the assailant with all of his weight. The man let out a startled cry, the stretched muscle along his left side rippling with a new tightness. _'Left arm's up,'_ Red Robin quickly noted, _'Right's down. Left-handed.'_ His body was responding to his thoughts like clockwork. The minute he brought the intruder to the ground he was rolling off of him and directly onto the outstretched arm, bending it back at a weird angle beneath his knees. Snapping one leg out, he dug his heel into the tender wrist. Seeing as how it happened in a matter of seconds, with someone so caught off guard and so shaken up well before his arrival, there was hardly any worry about getting shot himself.

Another yelp. Minimal flailing. The poor bastard had virtually no power in his convictions and went slack the minute the gun slipped from his grasp. “There you go,” Red Robin muttered quietly, “You’re okay..”

He rolled the man onto his stomach and zip tied his hands behind his back, acutely aware of the vibration massaging his Achilles tendon of the left leg. Stooping to pick up the discarded weapon, he wiped a quick swab of cotton over the grip and left it there to be collected by the proper authorities, saying, “Oracle, how far out are the police?”

Her answer was immediate. “Thirty seconds. They just arrived on the bottom floor. I’m bypassing all other commands on the elevator.”

“Copy.”

“Th-thank...you… Thank you..!”

Red Robin turned his head towards Connor Burgess, the man now on his feet and uncomfortably close. He gave him a wary side eye as he calculated how many steps it would require to get back out the window he entered. Not forgetting how desperate the intruder had been, he was beginning to have some mild suspicions about the man across from him. Of course, he could just as easily be the classic breed of Gotham scum. That wouldn’t be surprising.

With the ding of an arriving elevator beyond the front door, that was his cue to leave. At full-length strides, Red Robin reached his window in seconds. He pulled open the window further and practically threw himself out into the dark night. Taking only a beats to establish his surrounds, Red Robin slipped back into the habit of disappearing.

  


\+ +

  


Some would probably say that he was worse for wear. Others would say that he’s absolutely a workaholic or just a complete and total masochist. Only he was aware of the circumstances. Only he knew the full story - well, more like the gist of it, as it blurred heavily over the past six weeks - and only he could choose to act on it. No one else.  
When it came to choosing whether or not to take a breather, when it came to making that personal decision to hang up the cape or not, the choice was his and his alone. Of course he picked the cape above all else.

It wasn’t that hard.

It never was, really, stubborn habits coming to him as easily as the wind filled open sails on a rugged sea. 

The motions were all routine once the uncertainties were swallowed, his senses dialed to eleven and one. Though, it was more likely dialed at a steady 347 by that point. 

  


Getting to his penthouse in Chinatown had been the easy part, as was disabling and re-enabling the security system so he could slide in through the window. He silently locked it behind him for a little peace of mind. The difficulty came _after_ he stripped down to the bare essentials. It was like being exposed, like being left with his hands tied behind his back to fend for himself. A newborn against the elements - all that jazz. Tight skin waited for some kind of prickle of direction to guide him around a room that would make Alfred cry from the amount of takeout containers strewn about.

  


His uniform had been improved during the last month, adjusted and synced to a different sort of system he managed to design with his eyes closed. Being able to understand the different vibrations was another story entirely, but he always prided himself on being a fast learner. It took a week. Max.

Setting up a descriptive, auditory HUD that responded at the touch of a button, sometimes a few buttons for a specific function, had taken time… Valuable time, time he never wanted to waste in the first place, but it made up for that all on its own.

Because of it, no one would be any the wiser. No one _was_ any the wiser.

Just him.

 

In a sense, part of him was still sort of…achy. Tim scrubbed both hands down his face in a sluggish, weighted motion, leaning back on his heels until his thighs knocked into the couch. Occasionally, he’d get a prickle across his shoulders that set sore nerves aflame, sometimes his head would throb all the way up beneath the skin of his forehead. Sometimes he’d just be tense and not know why—

Or, rather, wouldn’t acknowledge why. Refused to, even.

—but the biggest concern came from the way his eyes hurt the most. A sting in the back where the retina seemed to follow the optic nerve straight down to his throat, which was just an additional pain in the neck.

No amount of blinking made it go away. No amount of resting his eyes made it stop. Even drinking water did little to help; and water was the cure to everything! Speaking of which, as he tumbled over the armrest and into the plush cushions - sinking partially into the depression shaped like his own backside from _months_ of dedicated work - he heard about three different water bottles crunch. 

  


Only at the beginning did he consider taking the issue to Batman. 

Bruce.

Bruce Wayne.

Tim immediately shot down the notion when he heard the tired sigh coming from the other end of the comm after he told the Big B that he had lost track of Poison Ivy all those weeks ago.

 _'It_ had _been Poison Ivy, right..?'_ He scowled when the memory surfaced, fuzzy and incomprehensible. All of Tim's memories of the time were heavy now, filled with static in some places and splotches of gray in others. It was like walking around in a puddle of muck. Like trying to figure out where you were during a dream. If he checked the records - which he had, four times - then it'd remind him that he had been at the botanical gardens in Burnley. That was it.

Either way, no matter what the case may have been, Tim let it go. All that was left to do now was help with patrols, do what he could for Wayne Enterprises while he remained "out of commission" for the time being, and keep a low-profile. Speaking of...

 

He reached for the coffee table until the pads of his fingers ran over the cool, exposed keyboard of his laptop. Pausing to check that it had its transmitter plugged into a USB port, he promptly pulled it into his lap and sat upright. Tim clicked impatiently on the trackpad until it whirred to life.

 _"Files loading,"_ the computer informed in the emptiness of the penthouse. A voice in the solitude that, for once, wasn't his own rambling thought process. As soon as said files were done - an old case that was just about wrapped up even without his help - it went on to describe what was currently displayed on the screen. Tim tuned it out, though. It's not like he hadn't seen the same screen a million times before.

There was a specific program he was searching for, one he wasn't sure he even had. Desperate, Tim even pulled up the Task Manager, clicking through files and shortcuts and listening only partially to the automated voice that repeatedly cut out whenever he changed his mind. If he had given it a personality, no doubt would it be getting pissed off at him. 

Minimizing the tab, pulling up the synced records that were shared with the Batcave and Oracle, he finally tuned back in, searching for the section that contained everyone's schedule for tomorrow afternoon.

Finally given a chance to speak, his computer relayed the information as he sat back against the cushions with a sigh. _"Nightwing remains at base, Batgirl scheduled to attend from noon until 8:00 pm, Oracle is said to be staying at the Watchtower."_ Tim let it ramble through the specifics of each, as well as whatever patrol route was scheduled after their pre-recorded plans before scrolling to the others. _"Batman and Robin head to Metropolis at 2:00 pm. Circumstances unknown—"_

"Figures."

_"—Red Robin remains on light duty. Recovering from the flu—"_

He snorted. While he was **absolutely** prone to getting sick easily, he hadn't actually been sick for a while now; Dick was just paranoid about his health, especially after he lied and said the reason why he didn't come to the Manor very often anymore was because he had been unwell. Leave it to good ol' Dick Grayson to worry over him like a mother hen. 

_"—while Black Bat remains at base."_

 

Not even allowing the automated voice to prattle on even more, Tim simply closed the laptop and tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut. His mind wandered to the toolbelt in a heap on the floor with the rest of his suit, to the cotton swab tucked securely in one of the pouches. It had been a bit optimistic on his part, but the raven had hoped that he already set up some kind of operating system that allowed him to analyze fingerprints here at his home base. If nothing else, Tim wanted to avoid going to the Batcave or the Manor as much as possible.

However, he didn't have the right program or, really, the right equipment. His little makeshift cave couldn't provide the same amount of competency as the real deal. Dick was one thing - and Alfred was another - but to be around _Cassandra_ was an entirely different story. It wasn't a question of whether or not she'd figure him out, but instead a question of _when_.

Tim wanted to avoid her the most, but it's not like he could've left this freshly blossoming case alone. Connor Burgess struck him as peculiar while his attacker had been...curious. The police would release his name and origins, sure, just not the deeper, more intimate stuff Tim wanted the most. He wanted to see if there was a pattern, if there was a risk of something like this happening again. Blame his over-analyzing habits.

Tomorrow afternoon he'd visit the Cave himself. Tim planned for 4:17 exactly; by that point, Bruce and Damian would be long gone, Dick would've finished training after seeing them off and would likely be with Alfred until dinner, and Cassandra would, maybe, be roaming around the Manor. Point being, it'd just be him in the Cave. To ease suspicion, maybe he'd leave a note or something to explain why he was over. It'd be better than someone seeing that he had logged into the Batcomputer and trying to understand why he had needed it.

Well... Maybe instead of writing - his penmanship was shaky at best - he'd print out a little post-it note or something. Make it look like a business card for fun. Stephanie would surely get a kick out of that.

For now, Tim would focus his attention elsewhere; the night was still young. He flipped open his computer, opened one of his browsers, and searched up Connor Burgess on YouTube. Only four videos in and he was about a hair's width away from throwing up at the sound of the man's voice, elated with faux promises of bettering Gotham life by way of renovations to other districts. On the fifth video, Tim was ready to drown himself with the nearest water bottle he could reach.


	2. I Can Overcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim makes his way to the Batcave right on schedule, alone and unbothered. He can get to work piecing together what he _hopes_ will be an easy fix.
> 
> Though the question remains, how long will it stay like that..?  
> Answer: Not very. Nothing ever goes according to plan.
> 
> But now he has a new case to worry about so it can't be all bad. Just another day on the job...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect updates this fast. I'm heading to Europe for a MONTH. 
> 
> Though I'll probably hand-write a million more while I'm away.
> 
> Sorry for the cruddy chapter summary btw (if someone can do better I'd love you forever. Anything helps, tips or tricks I'm weeeeaaaak). I also didn't proofread/edit the later half of the chapter;;;;;;;;;;;;

4:17:36

Right on schedule. The journey had been a little tedious - maybe even a little nerve racking, as was most things involving riding a vehicle with your eyes closed - but Tim made it in one piece, relying on memory to get him through the secret entrance to the Batcave once on the estate. His gadgets, and in turn him as well, were unfamiliar with the exact placement of everything the Batman owned. Easing a borrowed black BMW to a stop as deep into the neck of the cavern as he dared, Tim pulled off his helmet and shook out his hair. A cool gust chilled the gathered sweat on his temples, sending a shiver through his body. His little tremor only got worse once he began to prod towards his target.

The vibrations that shook through his torso from the interior of his double breasted suit vest (black, he recalled) was enough to rattle through the bone of his ribs. The sweatbands on his wrists (left was red, right was black - that's if he grabbed the right ones from his collection) weren't as active but they were active enough to nearly trigger a sweat in the crest of his palm. 

Don't even get him _started_ on the sensors in his belt. He was doing his best not to pull a damn samba in the middle of the sleek floor. 

No Batmobile to bump into meant he only needed to worry about the "extras". This primarily included the spare Batmobile - how many did one man need? - and Damian's own bike. Those were the only ones worth noting as Tim made his way in the direction of the Batcomputer; a path he knew by heart, with or without vision. 

 

His ears were tuned finely to the sounds of the cave around him. Being the sense of his that seemed to have sharpened the most in the past month and a half, Tim relied on it heavily, his steps nearly silent as he crossed the lot. 

There was the faint, constant hush of the waterfall. The occasional drip of condensation rolling from the stalactites overhead before slapping against whatever stone lay below it, sometimes landing in a small puddle that had gathered. Up ahead was the few whirrs and clicks of a running system that practically filled the whole cave like a uniquely specific presence. He could even hear the high-pitched prickle of the lights that kicked on because of his arrival. Somewhere far away, Tim heard a flapping pair of leather wings.  
Other than the occasional batty companion it was safe to say he was alone.

A sudden jolt on his left hip bone had him jerking to the right, narrowly avoiding a bruise from the metal railing while the toe of his sneakers smacked into the first step. He kept a loose grip on the cool steel under his palm as he ascended, a faint warmth wafted against his face. Like a breath of greeting, the Batcomputer purred. 

Tim didn't account for the exact amount of stairs leading to the main console, staggering forward when his leading foot slammed through a phantom step. It took a second to recover. Despite his complete faith in the sensors laced through his civilian attire he reached out into the emptiness. The vest guided him the most, notifying him whenever something was close enough and at chest level for him to grab. 

Batman, Bruce Wayne, or whoever was in charge of decorating the Batcave really needed to invest in more comfortable sitting arrangements. Tim practically recoiled at the cold metallic frame of the chair. Still, he practically tumbled into it, tension leaving his shoulders now that he didn't have to subconsciously worry about breaking something. Again, he had confidence in his new system, but that didn't mean the concern was gone.

 

Instantly, he was grateful that Bruce was such a prime planner; each key had braille already beaded across weathered surfaces. No doubt had it come in handy before, a beacon in the dark while one of the Bats was temporarily blinded by toxins or injury, but it's not like anyone had ever considered the value it held for someone who legitimately couldn't see with his own two peepers.

With quick clacks across the keyboard, Tim logged in, reaching for the inner breast pocket of his vest. His fingers curled around a USB and its little extension, rolling it between the grooves of his knuckles. As the Batcomputer pulled up his latest work, the raven felt around the table for the port. It only took a matter of a few seconds - he was plugged in. 

The extension was to mask the USB's functions from the Batcomputer's programming. It recorded the details and functional habits of anything and everything plugged into its server, and even if Tim said that no one would check, he couldn't be too sure. As far as the computer was concerned, it was an empty external hard drive waiting to be stuffed with files.  
Which, yeah, it was also that.

A little chirp in his ear notified Tim to the fact that he was safely synced. It wasn't long before the automated voice was reading off everything on display in the main screen; if he moved the cursor to a different screen, the voice would note on those details as well; if he hovered the cursor over a clickable link, it'd repeat it constantly. It was a little annoying, considering how almost EVERYTHING linked to something else in Tim's personal database.

 

He spent a few minutes shaking the cursor around on the right side of the screen, searching for a specific program to launch and clicking when he heard the first syllable uttered in his ear. A clunky piece of equipment on his right - three feet tall, top at an upwards-slanted angle that extended an extra foot - gave a little purr of activity. Tim was rolling across the floor towards it. His foot came up to catch the edge of the table as he pulled a plastic bag from the front pocket of his jeans, giving it a slight bounce in his hold to make sure he didn't forget the cotton ball.

Reaching out, Tim did his best to remember every detail of the machine. The pads of his fingers ghosted over little turn-handles and perfectly squared buttons. There was a dial, there was a glass panel, there were the soft clicks of trays along the front that could be popped open depending on what kind of specimen one was analyzing. He paused to think, trying to gage what would benefit him the most.

It was a dry sample on absorbent, coarse material. He knew that the amount he had gathered probably wasn't enough to constitute a full fingerprint or even a DNA sample that would be sufficient enough, so he'd have to work overtime with the machine directly if he wanted to extra _everything_. 

Reaching for the top of the equipment, Tim twisted and pulled up on one of the turn handles, hearing the plexiglass tube slide up into view with a pressured hiss. The lid flicked open and practically sucked the cotton tuft right out of his fingers before sealing shut. He felt over the machine's surface once more, he thought back to the functions it had naturally and what ones the computer could enable remotely.

Honestly, it was a pleasant surprise how easily it came. ' _Sweat,_ ' Tim noted, pressing a few of the keys he could picture on his own, ' _That guy had clammy hands for sure. He was nervous._ ' Even if he couldn't get a full fingerprint, the raven could still extract the sweat that was soaked into the plush cotton. He was rolling back to the center screen. A real typical Guy-in-the-Chair cliché master. While the analyzer got to work, Tim turned his attention to finding out what exactly it was the police had found out; and, likewise, what they released to the public.

Tim was listening diligently to the voice in his ear when something hot prickled along the back of his neck. A trained response, a trained _sense_ that told him he wasn't alone - that maybe he hadn't been alone for quite some time now. All he registered was a quick "Henry Acker" before turning partially in his chair. He didn't dare turn fully until he was certain he knew where this person was.

It shouldn't have surprised him to go without a verbal cue for such a long stretch of time, and it didn't, but it certainly made him uneasy. Fear that he was as good as gone made it hard to find his own voice, to swallow down the chalky thickness that filled his throat. It was obvious who was there. He settled for a slight diversion.

Stretching his arms up over his head, back behind him with strain, and to the side dramatically, Tim let the hums in his sweatbands alert him to any changes that had previously gone unnoticed. Behind him, it suggested, but not close enough that he _should've_ been able to notice, so that was a relief. Besides, when she wanted to be, Cass was the hardest to detect among them all - only Alfred seemed to know where she was at all times.

Rotating his chair to face the stairs, he could practically feel warmth spreading across his cheeks from the girl's intensity. He settled for rubbing at his eyes - another diversion, really - before cocking his head to the side. "How goes things?"

 

Tim nearly punched himself in the face. How goes things? _How goes things?!_ What was he, twelve? Shit at communication? The latter wasn't completely out of the question but he liked to pretend he was pretty good. It became quite clear to him that he was on edge, tense knowing exactly who it was sitting at the top of the stairs - likely with her legs crossed neatly beneath her. Cassandra was the last person he wanted to encounter but now he had to roll with it.  
So, yes, "how goes things" was as good as it was going to get. Tim had to be conscious of his body language, as it was a bigger blabbermouth than he at times like this.

There wasn't an immediate response - there seldom was - but she eventually answered, giving him a solid direction to face. "Things?" she repeated carefully, humming as she made her decision. "Good. Yours?"

"My things? My things are good. Pretty good."

"Good."

Just the three of them. Tim, Cassandra, and their good ol' pal Silence. Still, that was one of the cool things about being friends with Cassandra Cain; she made silence feel companionable. He ended up not minding it as much as he initially thought, pulling his legs up to the chair with him.

Tim figured they would continue to sit like that - he actually wondered if she _wanted_ him to get back to work - but was completely caught off guard by the girl. He only realized that she was moving when the sensors in his vest began to buzz along the shoulders and he could hear a single exhalation of breath near his brow. He may have been Red Robin, he may have been a sidekick to Batman and a great deceiver in the field, but no amount of training would've been able to keep him from jerking to the side instinctually.

Anytime something got too close to his face, he'd react the same way every single time. Perhaps he had a right to be like this - WebMD would probably say so - but it was infuriating at the same time as it was defensive. Tim didn't like being on edge like this. He didn't like not being able to fully gage the distance between himself and something else— _someone_ else. It could've been anyone and his gut reaction would be to get away before retaliating.

He didn't this time. In fact, he could hardly move.

Cassandra had suddenly placed her hand on the top of his head, heel of her palm pressed against the center of his forehead. She was observing him. She was analyzing his very being just as he would analyze a crime scene. It felt weird being the subject of someone else's curiosity. It felt raw.

Tim tried to argue against himself. Lying wouldn't help him now, he reasoned, but he also had nothing else to fall back on now that he was flayed open for her eyes to see like a deveined shrimp. Cassandra would be able to tell, too. No doubt about that. "Sorry, Cass..." he tried, allowing himself the vulnerability of closing his eyes when she tilted his head back. "I'm tired. I didn't mean to jump..."

Her touch was firm yet gentle at the same time. Her fingers gently curled against his scalp and pulse thumping through the curvature of her calloused hand. Cassandra didn't hold his head in a way that was unbreakable. Instead it suggested a sort of comfort he couldn't describe with words.

 

"Okay," she said, "tired. Tim is tired. All tired. Face tired, especially." As she spoke, her other hand came up to cup the side of his face, the tips of her fingers pressed on the bottom ridge of his left eye socket. A pressure that wasn't...dangerous, not like he normally would've thought given his predicament. Her skin felt surprisingly cool against Tim's own, calming a fever he didn't know he was harboring. It encouraged him to open his eyes. 

For a second, he wondered what kind of expression Cassandra would've had. Not her actual features, of course, but her eyes. In the time that he had known her, one of the things that stuck out to Tim was how expressive her eyes would continuously grow to be. He never knew what each look meant, or what each glimmer signified, but it was so undeniably Cass that it never mattered.

He missed it all of sudden.

And he missed it a lot.

 

Above all else, despite this new, increasingly relaxed state he was in, Tim should've remembered that he was being investigated by someone trained under assassins and the Batman himself. The thought choked him up. Reminded him of the bitter darkness.

He had no real idea how his eyes looked anymore. Yes, he looked up symptoms of vision loss and yes, he had seen blind people before; he'd culminated his own encyclopedia of information yet you could never be too sure. His eyesight - as far as he knew - was lost in a confrontation with a metahuman. This meant they could look cloudy, they could look discolored, they could be decorated with marks in the soft tissue, they could've been a solid black for all he knew! There had been a slight bruising at the time, though when considering that bruises on the face often disappeared after about 20 or so days, it should've been gone. If not, then there was something else that was wrong. Tim didn't feel scars either, but it's not like it would've mattered what his fingers felt. Lots of variables he forgot to account for.

Cassandra let out a deep, even sigh that brushed against his skin. Her breath had a leafy, aromatic scent to it. ' _Alfred probably made her tea..._ ' Tim couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upward because of _course_ Alfred made her favorite hot beverage; especially so close to dinner while just about everyone else was away, it was something to unwind with. Cassandra didn't always eat at the table but, as far as Tim was concerned, Alfred would give her Assam before meals to maybe motivate her to join him.

She brushed back his hair with both hands before letting them fall to his shoulders. Tim could feel her gaze piercing through his skin like a laser, could maybe even convince himself that he saw her standing in front of him. "You are hurt?" Cassandra asked, though it didn't entirely feel like a question. She added a quiet little prod to his cheekbones for emphasis, something very minute igniting like a live wire under the skin. Bruising. Still.

"No." He quickly shook his head, a little annoyed that he was lying to her again. If it had been anyone else, the raven figured it would've been easy work to lie to them. Like, stupid easy; as easy as deciding what to get Dick for Christmas (novelty mugs or joke t-shirts). No one else sought to get this close or get this personal with him anymore. Not this _slowly_. Plus, even if someone else _had_ noticed, they were too stubborn to fully dawdle on the detail - and he was too stubborn for their concern. "Not really," Tim corrected, "I really am tired, Cass. There's a lot of stuff going and I'm—"

"Recovering." Cass finished for him, her grip tightening as she nodded her head knowingly. "Still recovering. That's okay. Things are good. Things _stay_ good."

Tim swallowed before asking, "Do I... Do I look... How do I look?"

"You don't look."

' _She definitely knows. If she doesn't then I'm Bigfoot._ '

 

"Don't look now, maybe won't. Dressed, yes, but..."

He perked a bit, plastering a crooked smile onto his face. She must've confused "look" with her vocabulary, taking it in her own stride and then backtracking to understand what he had meant. "What's with the hesitation? It's business casual. You don't like the popped collar? The loose buttons?" While believing that Cassandra really had him figured out - it took maybe a minute or two for her to piece it together, just as he expected - Tim was able to breathe again. The quips came with the release of tension in his lungs; a trademark of all Robins.

By the way she paused to respond, and the way her hair sounded as if it rubbed against itself in the space between them, she had likely scrunched her nose while giving her head a short shake. It was easy to imagine - minimal, very expressive yet still so _Cass_. "You don't look," Cassandra insisted again, "but act like you do. Still, Tim, you see. See even more. Others...may not. I can...tell them. Speak." 

 

This time, it was his turn to extend his reach, to grip her forearm with a small smile that he hoped asked more than he ever could. Tim tried to find the words and, when he did, his voice just couldn't give it the same certainty he was feeling. If his body betrayed him then he could at least feign interest with his tone. "Don't push yourself," he said easily, "I don't need them to know. To _see_ , I guess. I'm okay. Things are okay."

"Things... Good?"

"Very."

"Safe."

"Yes. I promise."

Cassandra nodded, her hands slipping from his shoulders and Tim's grip slipping from her arm. "Back to work?"

He smiled in response before putting one foot back on the ground, using it to slowly turn him back towards the Batcomputer. "Just a little bit," said Tim, "It's probably nothing but it has to do with that hostage situation last night. I wanted to look into the guy that tried to hold a public figure at gunpoint. He didn't seem like the type to go on a rampage, so I want to understand his motives."

Behind him now, she purred. "Busy bird as usual. Probably...won't stay."

"Not today, Cass. But some time."

"Soon," the girl decided, her voice fading as she made her exit. "You'll come soon. You'll stay."

It was more of a reaction than anything else. Tim gripped the table and turned his whole body to look back over his shoulder. As he should've expected, there was only darkness, but for a second he wondered if he could _feel_ Cassandra leaving. Could feel her heading for the stairs near the corner of what would've been his sight. Peculiar as always, Cassandra Cain was gone. And he felt better.

He bit back his smile, diverting his attention back to his work. Taking a stab at his time frame, he figured he had an hour until Alfred came down to do some tidying up, maybe more if he succeeded in convincing Cassandra to have dinner with him. Which also meant that, if he succeeded, Dick might come back down sooner rather than later.  
In Tim's humble opinion, one Bat was about all he could handle at the moment.

  


\+ +

  


Henry Acker, age 42. Worked for a mechanic shop in the Burnley district on Connelly Avenue. One of Connelly's blocks, where it intersected with DuBois - as Acker had exclaimed while holding Connor Burgess at gunpoint - was indeed shut down for renovations but there were a few things that struck Red Robin as odd.

For starters, _one_ block? Why not more than that? Why not the whole street? You need more than just a block's worth of space if you were going to tear down or remodel entire buildings. It seemed impractical at first, then it seemed....suspicious. Keeping it concentrated may have been cost efficient at the very least - that was what every senator and politician and anyone with a surmountable trust fund under their tail wanted from their business transactions - but in a neighborhood with a less-than-stellar track record? No.

The sooner the project was finished, the sooner everyone could ignore the mold in the corner as it tried to take over its territory.

But those were straying thoughts. Henry Acker was the focus.

 

His great-great grandmother first came to San Francisco from Taiwan and settled down for two generations. Bit by bit the family tree started to spread its roots east until settling down in New Jersey. Not really an upgrade but who was he to judge; _he_ had a place in San Francisco yet still came back to gritty Gotham. Nonetheless, Henry Acker got married to nice lady named Mariah and fathered two daughters with her. 

At the mechanics, he worked under a Jedediah Marano. His work was honest overall and he had a surprisingly clean criminal record. Acker's worst offense was grand theft auto of a Volvo that didn't even have a working fuel pump. Honestly, it seemed like a pretty drastic jump to go from stealing broken cars to holding someone at gunpoint over losing your job. Then again... Maybe that was a little conceited...

Or maybe Acker was afraid.

Fear compelled good men to go to war, made children rationalize the worst evils.  
Red Robin immediately looked into Jedediah Marano after making the observation; Acker was hardly any of his concern anymore.

 

The cowled vigilante tapped his fingers against the underside of his gauntlet in a sort of restless tick. Admittedly, at the same time he was cycling through all city-owned surveillance cameras in the surrounding area of the mechanics as well as his own little devices (microphones he stuck to the inner lip of window sills and small cameras of his own design, he almost even set up a drone but that might've been overkill for the first night), but it was practically the same thing. Red Robin would only listen for a maximum of thirty seconds to the auditory descriptions as they're processed through his HUD from the cameras, then listen for a maximum of a minute to the microphones.

Nothing stuck out. Which was really saying something considering how analytically he absorbed the sounds - like a living computer. No crime in the alleys despite being the prime location, barely a sign that people existed to begin with. Which, slowly, was starting to make sense. Jedediah Marano had partnered with every single person who bought _anything_ on either side of Connelly and DuBois. He had the stability to help them get loans and the ability to buy them out the minute their business went belly up; and it always went belly up.

Still, the business would continue on like usual, even keeping the same managers in charge. The only change was that the property was signed off under Marano's name and his name alone. So, how did a friendly neighborhood mechanic manage to buy out an entire block? What kind of character was he that he could drive an average Joe into a hostage situation?

When Red Robin read that he had been released from GCPD's custody on multiple occasions, it wasn't too hard to paint an image.

 

The first night, however, remained uneventful. Someone honked at someone else and a very, very small bar fight broke out further down the street, but it remained quiet. As quiet as Gotham could ever be, at least. He tried again.

 

And again.

 

Three days of minimal activity and Red Robin was strongly considering going on a sort of day-time patrol. It was colder that night - a spring chill, nothing to get excited about - but it was hard to ignore the bite in the air when he couldn't visually distract himself. Like claws, it sunk into the exposed flesh of his cheeks and chin, making the bone ache in soft, humming beats. Knelt on the rooftop with his cape folded tightly around his torso, he prodded through a map on the tablet he brought with him. His HUD was constantly rotating through the microphones on a timer but lowered the volume whenever he would tap on random parts of the screen.

Just when he was considering the option of turning off the microphones but leaving the cameras to run so he could delve into the footage later, to instead _leave_ and maybe focus his energy on something else, he stopped. His index hovered over the tablet, replaying the last street name his HUD had identified over and over in his head. As a matter of fact, Red Robin set a little marker down before resetting his map's position back to the corner of Connelly and DuBois.

Only 1.5 miles from Crime Alley it seemed. Huh...

 

The following night, Red Robin did a stakeout 1.25 miles from Crime Alley, though it couldn't have possibly counted as a stakeout considering how frequently he vaulted down into the alleys to stop a mugging or three. 

 

Night after that, Connor Burgess was all over the news; and the scene of his interview had been on the border of Burnley and Crime Alley, where Henry Acker apparently lived with his family. The public figure had pulled strings to get Acker out of jail and didn't press any charges since the little attack. He claimed he understood the reason behind Acker's actions, he said he wished he could do better for all people of Gotham but to make it up to Acker, Connor Burgess offered to handle the cost of his apartment until the man could secure another job.

Good guy, it seemed. But after listening to the interview only half a million times, Tim noticed a shrill tension in Henry Acker's voice when he spoke. He stumbled over his words way more than he ever had when he was holding the gun, he kept backtracking and correcting. More than once, Connor Burgess had let out a lighthearted laugh as said, "Camera shy, pal?"

Camera shy.... Definitely. Though, in his experience paranoid was a much better word when someone was strung tighter than a piano wire. Who could blame him? That very same night the news broadcast was televised - the night Red Robin was moving a few microphones and cameras to the apartment building - he overheard the slow purr of an engine being masked by conversation between two men with the same tone of gruffness in their voices. Conveniently, right behind Acker's complex.

 

In an attempt to get around to their position, he all but about tumbled into a trash can head-first, digging his fingers into the chipped bricks of the complex before his momentum could take him down. Running around as he did, it had become second nature to ignore most of the vibrations in his suit; which included the one that massaged into his lower back at, oh, say...trash can height? Red Robin hissed in a breath before dropping low to the ground, careful to get around a multitude of obstacles - he passed over a glass bottle in front of him with ease, he avoided the bundle of trashed newspapers just a few degrees to his right - until he was safely tucked behind the corner of the complex with a hand on his belt.

"Boss said we could do what we want if we located the guy," one was in the middle of saying, metal creaking as he likely leaned up against the side of his muffled ride, "and we tracked him down on our own. It's fair game."

The other seemed to sigh. Apparently this was a form of reasoning the first tried very often, and while he humored his buddy, he did so with a grain of salt. "Yer kiddin'. What else you gon' do that this guy don't know about?"

"We could charge him. Didn't seem to have much of a backbone if he couldn't shoot one guy."

"We tried that. In public 'cuz yer an idiot."

"Could lure his wife out? She's a real catch - don't know why she stays. Call up and say we found her wallet?"

Numero Dos laughed in response, which only triggered something in Red Robin's gut that had him tapping his fingers along the top of his utility belt in rapid thought. It wasn't until he heard the car door open or the cock of a shotgun - ' _Mossberg 500, heavy,_ ' he silently noted, 'but not too heavy...' - that really sent him reeling. With a tap against the center of a Batarang (red with a white, clickable face, certainly in need of a better name) and the fluid snap of his arm to the side, Red Robin flung the weapon around the corner. His aim was set for the space only a little to the left of where he heard the latch in the car door.

Which he hit directly with a soft slit through the metal, like tearing aluminum foil. It wasn't necessary but he still shielded his face with his cape; didn't want to worsen pre-existing damage. There was a sharp whine and his ears rang as the flashbang went off - so strong it was almost tangible through the darkness. Guy with the shotgun screamed and the gun itself rattled against the safety still in place, while his accomplice fell to the musty asphalt with a hard thud. Timing it just right so that when the glare died down - for these guys, he estimated about 15, maybe 20 seconds until their eyes acclimated back to the dark Gotham street - they'd get a good view of him turning tail back into the alley.

 

Still... Not his smartest plan considering that Red Robin hadn't been caught in any sort of firefight since his injury, but there was a faint nagging in the back of his mind that was hopeful for backup. Even if he didn't need it.

He kicked the glass bottle out of the way - a telltale sign of where in the alley they were - shoulders tensing when he heard the shotgun cock from behind. Moving too soon would result in the gunman changing his direction and leaving no opportunity for the teen to avoid the shot; moving too late, well... Getting hit in fairly close proximity by a shotgun was always an experience. One he really, _really_ didn't want to have the joy of becoming reacquainted with.

This was one of the few moments where Red Robin could acknowledge that thinking would likely get him killed. With a deafeningly loud _BAM_ of the shotgun, the echo tight and collapsing in around him thanks to the alley walls, all he did was drop low. Fast. The shot itself didn't have a spread so that had been a stroke of luck - likely a slug, which was absolutely absurd considering that their scheme involved getting close to someone - yet the vigilante could feel the heat left in its wake, almost scalding through the leather cowl. 

Mossberg 500s held six shots and he didn't want to give the man another opportunity to fire, launching up into the darkness. His steps were undoubtedly calculated, yet that didn't stop him from feeling close to hysterical; he had very little to rely on by way of direction other than his sensors and he was in the same space as a gunman. Great. Even so, when the vibrations covered the entire front of his body it was a telltale sign that this would be easy.

Dropping onto his back leg, Red Robin kicked the other outward, slamming his heel into _someone's_ knee caps. There wasn't a clatter against the ground when the man went down so it wasn't the one heavily armed. When he jumped back up onto his feet and lunged deeper into the brief, he didn't fully account for the first man to get up; his knee ended up slamming into the poor guy's throat and bringing him down a second time. Bad luck..

 

Then, to the right, a quick cock of the shotgun. 

Red Robin dove into a roll and kept his arms close to his head to block out the noise as best he could. The last thing he needed was to temporarily be without two-fifths of his senses. He had been in the process of rolling when the loud thundering _BAM_ rattled down to his bones. A tug through his cape was likely the slug puncturing the leather; the dull crunch of brick was the very same slug crashing into the side of the neighboring building. 

"Shit..!" The gunman's grip fumbled as he went to cock the gun once more.

Vibrations shook through the back of Red Robin's shoulder and he had a proper direction, pivoting on his heel once he came up from the tumble. He jumped forward with both hands extended - those sensors only seemed to concentrate in a linear direction - and then grabbed. The shotgun's barrel was hot in his grip, accentuated by the fact that Red Robin was just so acutely aware of everything in contact with his person.

Did that prevent from harboring his most menacing scowl? Not in the slightest.

The gunman audibly gulped right before Red Robin lurched forward and slammed his head into the man's face. Something gave way under the force, a wet sputtering followed. Wrenching the gun free, the vigilante slammed the butt of it into what he wagered was the side of the man's head even before his scream of pain could finish. "Oracle," he reported, dropping the firearm onto the ground as he got to work with the zip ties, "direct police to my position. I mean, if someone hasn't reported the gunshots already."

"On it."

Waiting just a beat longer, he listened to the world that moved around him. There was no shift of heavy weight on a fire escape, no grinding of thick tether through the mechanisms of a grapple gun, no sign that anyone had joined him at any point during the fight. Red Robin tried to not be disappointed; it's not like he _actually_ expected someone to show up. That was ridiculous.

 

Still, the night after that, he set up watch on the other side of the road that separated Burnley from Crime Alley. It allowed him a better frontal-view of Acker's residence - despite not needing a real view. Red Robin convinced himself it was logical, within reason. Any vantage point was a good vantage point (god, he knew so much better than that). He settled in the middle of the roof - an abandoned building, very typical of the luxurious Crime Alley - and rotated through his cameras and microphones.

He came with no expectations for any outside party, like usual. Just...with curiosity. A slight interest, one would say. It made his work a little more interesting as he ran through the case files he had arranged in regards to Acker and Marano. Though, maybe an encounter with someone who used to try to kill you - while you yourself should've been benched weeks ago - wasn't that smart. Red Robin didn't _feel_ very smart as the hours ticked on; especially when he heard a church bell somewhere far away chime two times into the night.

Ackers went without incident the entire time which was a little problematic because, as it stood, there was no pattern. Maybe day two in the same spot would change that. Patterns, after all, were crucial sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'll be back in a month! Eager to update I'm certain, so don't give up on me just yet. :)) I'll do my best to get better at description and fight scenes; it felt a little long so I want to amend that.


	3. "Is that What You Call it?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime Alley is the same as ever; a new drug syndicate is at risk of blooming, there's more stuff for the boisterous Red Hood to worry about, and he obviously can't have everything go according to plan. Typical.  
> And when a red bird wanders into his territory, Jason thinks he might've gotten lost.
> 
> It was more like a dove coming to solve all his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice! The Rating has changed! Proceed with caution.
> 
>  
> 
> Things I've realized:  
> Number One - It's difficult to go from writing a person who relies on internal narration and physical sensations, to one who can actually see. Like wtf, how do you not over-describe everything visual while still painting a picture? It's whack.
> 
> Number Two - Jason is surprisingly difficult to write but god dammit I've committed to the bit.
> 
> Number Three - I wrote like three iterations of this while in Europe and they were all trash.
> 
> Number Four - and most importantly - I'm considering stopping with the separating labels of Red Robin/Red Hood in the narrative. I'm getting confused XD

Under the dense smog of Gotham's atmosphere, he was a flaming meteor. In the dark alleys, he was a living shadow, striking fear in those who should've known better to begin with. Those who were exempt from mercy. Poetic justice - the Red Hood was flourishing.

 

Well, to a point.

It was the usual grind, nothing special. Just another week of crime fighting and gang wrangling. 

 

Jason pinned some goon lowlife under his boots and held a blade to their jugular, scowling heavily under the cover of his hood. This was the fourth drug bust in seven days, one that stemmed from the same source as each one before it; each thug participating had a similar dialect, spoke with familiarity instead of aggressive tension towards each other, and they were all scared shitless at the sight of him. Same firearms. Same drug, which wouldn't have been a dead giveaway had it been a frequently circulating strand. It certainly wasn't. It was _new_.

And the thug beneath him had close to nothing to offer him.

He asked the usual questions. A standard "how's your mother" and a "what do you think of the weather", can't forget the classic "You have twelve seconds to tell me exactly what I want to know". After chasing this ring for a full week - and that was a _full_ week - Jason was getting tired of the same responses. Going on a wild goose chase certainly had no business being on Jason's list of priorities for as long as it currently stood to be, but he was thinking as far ahead as he could manage. If no one pointed him in the right direction soon he was going to go ape-shit. 

 

"Please, don't hurt me..!"

Then don't cause problems. Next.

"I don't know where the manufacturer is!"

Heard it before. Try again.

"I never wanted to get involved, I swear!"

Yeah... That's what everyone says.

 

Finally, there was some meat to feed from: "Two days from now—!"

He tilted his head to feign a sort of curiosity. "Two days from now?"

The man was scrawny, ratty-looking, and sweating up a storm. It made the knife at his neck glisten under the gloom of broken LEDs hanging from the warehouse ceiling. His straw hair was stringy against his temples and his pupils were blown from either a secondary-high or from fear. At this point, Jason didn't really care. Not until the words started spilling from his mouth; details upon details, scarce knowledge but a location and a time. A reason. Maybe a source.

Leaning out of his tense stance, Jason slipped the blade back into its little strap against his thigh. "See?" he began to say, "Now that wasn't too difficult, was it?" He still didn't get off the man. As the rat let his guard down, Jason struck like a cobra, hard and fast with a right hook directly against the poor dude's temple. He was out like a light and Jason was on his way.

 

It wasn't until some time after midnight that his attention shifted gears completely. It all kicked off when Jason heard a shotgun bang as he patrolled near the outskirts of his territory. Shotguns were a little unorthodox for Crime Alley. They were heavy and slow, nowhere near practical for a gang to defend their borders. As a matter of fact, Jason couldn’t remember the last time some not-big-baddy used a shotgun. That usually meant bad news for him. If it wasn’t in his hunting grounds now, it was definitely close enough that it’d eventually bleed over in a week at most. He wondered, distantly, if it already had; his current case seemed to favor shotguns a lot when it came to protecting their stash.

Still, _because_ it wasn't on his turf just yet meant that there was a pretty good chance he'd go running into an undesirable. 

A Bat.

 

Short version? No, he didn't hate the Bats anymore. Not all of them, anyways. 

Long version? Bruce could fuck right off, he'd murder anyone who even gave Stephanie a weird look - after she already pounded their faces in, Dickie was overwhelming but sometimes stood to be decent company, and the Demon Spawn was just.... Meh.

Cass? Cool. 

Barbara? No problems there.

Alfred? Chill. 

Tim?

 

Tim was....fine, a little more complex in his honest opinion but that's just how things were. He expected as much considering their history. Still, they weren't....terrible. They were okay.

Tim was okay.

 

_**BAM** _

 

There was a second shot just as Jason landed on a rooftop not too far from the source. Realizing that he was caught in the more residential part of the Burnley District, a shotgun _screamed_ catastrophe. Whoever was taking fire likely wasn't standing far enough to avoid fatal injury in this environment. It had to be an intentional attack or an accident. Though, accidents only had two shells if there was panic. As the ringing faded and he held his breath, he waited for some kind of screaming; whether it be pain or distress really didn't matter, so long as there was something to go off of. There was nothing.

Somewhere in the distance, the ever-present whine of police sirens seemed to become concentrated. Gathered together.

Then, a cape clad figure was emerging from an alley four complexes away, a streak of royal black against the gentle burn of Gotham's city lights against the smog. Jason didn't move right away. With their backs to him he couldn't see the colors of their costume. Couldn't tell who it was. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself by dive bombing behind an A/C unit and kicking up gravel in his wake. They paused a moment on the lip of a rooftop. Something must've caught their interest - though it certainly wasn't him - because they stayed like that for a while, not really moving until they fired a grapple towards one of the dim streetlamps. Swinging off into the night with practiced agility, Jason let a few seconds pass before making his move.

Hopping from roof to roof until he was looming over the crime scene to see two guys beaten on the floor of the musky alleyway. Zip tied and too far from a discarded weapon that they wouldn’t be able to get to it before authorities made their arrival on the scene. Typical of a bat. Naturally, for a moment there Jason wondered _which_ bat. They weren’t there now so at least he didn’t have anything to worry about. Realistically. The cops would likely be there in a few minutes, allowing him the freedom to poke around for a while. Maybe weasel some information out of the two sorry saps wincing on the ground. See if they had anything to do with his situation.

With a thud that disturbed newspapers and a stray plastic bag, the outlaw dropped down using fire escapes as steps on his descent. Jason established a quick list, an orderly way of going about things:

1\. Check on the thugs, try to find out their motive.

2\. See if they know anything about the drugs.

3\. Find out who their boss is.

4\. See if the gun is worth taking (note: it probably is).

 

Of the two, the bigger guy wasn’t responsive. Jason didn’t bother crouching down to look him over; he could see the damages well enough. The man’s nose looked broken, crooked at the bridge. It was still bleeding - kinda heavily, too - but he appeared to be breathing well enough through his mouth to not choke right away. He had a nasty bruise on the side of his head, even a big ole gash from where he was struck.

Sparing a glance at the shotgun far against the wall, it wasn’t hard to guess how exactly he had gotten it. Probably had a concussion now, the poor bastard.

Smaller dude looked disoriented and weak. His chest heaved as if breath never returned to his lungs. For a moment, his glassy stare locked with the stern yet emotionless gaze of the hood. Then he shrieked, coughing violently in the process as he tried to caterpillar away from the raven. 

In any normal scenario, Jason would’ve pinned the man down and threatened him with a knife like he did an hour ago, but he was strapped for time; sirens wailed in the distance, rising in pitch as they got closer. He settled for quick snapshots of each guy’s face and a quick survey of the shotgun. It seemed like it was in good condition with a few rounds to spare, and something that may not have been too hard to trace. So, he took it, strolling out into the street where a Toyota Corolla was still running. 

Honestly, he would’ve expected something less practical for thugs. Maybe like a Hummer or something, but the Corolla was fairly efficient and would blend in fairly easily if caught in rush hour traffic. 

 

There was nothing to note aside from the fact that there was no license plate or the fact that it was a champagne color (aka most basic of Corolla colors). However, there _was_ something stuck in the doorframe. Those sirens were closing in on his location, yet Jason felt time slow down at a curious rate... He ripped the batarang from the metal and ran his thumb over the pressed-in front. 

A twinge rippled under his skin. There was just something so....amusing, and equally irritating, that came with recognizing the weapon. What could’ve possibly brought the Replacement of all people this close to his territory? Not only was it pretty far from the area he seemed to patrol more recently, but it was _too_ close for comfort on behalf of both parties. Seriously. He noncommittally promised to open fire if the vigilante wandered onto his turf after the fact.

Still... The Replacement deserved some credit; he took down two guys in what was likely close quarters and didn’t get shot. It’s not easy.

Down the street, oncoming flashes of blue and red painting the dank street in flares of light signaled his cue to leave.

  


The following night, he pretended to not notice Tim sitting within the limits of Crime Alley way past 3:00am. It was almost baffling how he remained unacknowledged and precariously close to the younger's back, something which set off a few warnings in his head. Seriously. _Sitting_ in the most blatantly crime-ridden part of Gotham was one thing, one stupid thing, but for his guard to be so low that he didn't notice Jason only _one building away_?! He wasn't about to get involved. At least, not right out the gate.

On the way back to his most recent safehouse, he made a pit stop at a greasy burger chain for the best, most mouth watering and artery clogging double decker one could get for a few bucks. Delicious and greasy and enough to send an average man into cardiac arrest. Jason believed that he earned it after a hard day's work; basically just stopping Amethyst's psycho ex-boyfriend from stalking her ever again thanks to a good scare and a broken collar bone, and planting bugs at the meeting place for tomorrow night's little escapade.

He slipped into the bunker he called home, tucked under an abandoned parking structure with thick walls that kept prying eyes out and left him as innocuous as possible. Once he rearmed the security system, ditched the hood haphazardly on his battered couch, you can bet your ass he went through the back access left in the Bat's database - thank you Oracle, Barbara, considerate goddess - and accessed Tim's files. It wasn't his concern, really, but his being on Jason's turf meant that he was subsequently part of the man's responsibility. If something happened to Tim, Batman and all of his little clones would come harking down his neck. Which was the last thing Jason wanted in this life or the next. He huffed and scratched the back of his neck as he looked over his laptop. "What a pain..." 

There was nothing exciting worth noting. The most recent report was about a week old in origin but had been updated not even an hour ago - active case - still it held no clues as to why the younger was so...unaware. Shrugging off his jacket and proceeding to shed his armor and weapons, Jason noticed the text highlighted near the top. "'Red Robin, recovering from the flu. On light duty'," he read with a slight lift in his tone. It was almost laughable. 

He knew "light duty" didn't exist in Tim's vocabulary. He also knew that even the most basic of flus could knock the kid out of commission for a long time. It at least explained why Tim wasn't hyper aware at the moment. One mystery solved. Jason slapped the laptop shut.

  


\+ +

  


Jason clacked his teeth sharply against the spoon in his mouth, grumbling something he wasn’t even sure was English. It was roughly three in the afternoon as blazing light leaked into the safe house through small windows near the ceiling. He had showered, his hair almost completely dry since then, and his favorite (but still shit) daytime television show ran in the background. Maybe focusing on the case would’ve been easy without the distractions of TV or the second bowl of cranberry oat cereal in front of him. Then again, he had been working on the same details for the past week; it was beyond irritating to have to regurgitate the information repeatedly.

 

What he knew for certain was easy, and that included the details of the drug in mild circulation. Motives were OBVIOUSLY monetary, the drug benign in comparison to some of the wacky shit Jason had seen in his time, but still strong enough to get a notable, memorable high, desired enough to churn out a big profit from the right crowd, and easy enough to manufacture that a dumbass could figure it out if he already had some kind of market to work in. Still green, he didn't have any information on the side effects it caused or what kind of addictive properties it possessed. Again, benign, but it could get weird.

Another thing he had to go off of was that the head honcho likely had something to do with Burnley, where plenty of the lackeys he had interrogated seemed to come from. Henchmen and underlings with a shared brain cell and a knack for dirty work flocked from all over once presented with an opportunity to make money or own drugs, so having a concentrated point of origin was striking.

With the police report Jason got his grubby paws on in regards to the men Red Robin "incapacitated", it seemed they lived in Burnley too. They also had some sort of connection to a block on Connelly Avenue being shut down; they used to work there three weeks ago before dropping off the radar for a week, suddenly reappearing with a new shotgun and a goal he couldn't place. Or maybe it was just a one-off and a waste of time.

Despite everything that was going on, despite the rush of progress this new affiliation was making, no one was dying. No one was being physically hurt beyond repair because of the drug and it wasn’t that big of a problem. Really. But it seeped up from below the cracks of a poisoned city, it rushed up to the knees of Crime Alley’s residents before they even realized what was happening; sooner or later it would get way too aggressive for Jason to handle on his own. He spat the spoon out haplessly and sighed. Things were about to get annoying - if they weren't already as annoying as they could've been.

And he handled the annoyance _swimmingly_ once twilight laid itself over the city.

  


There was supposedly a drug sampling session in the basement of a seedy Irish pub - Patty's Hat, fun and spirited in name but not beyond it - scheduled for midnight. Jason was _greatly_ looking forward to crashing the party. He arrived ahead of schedule, strolling in through the front door as if he owned the place. Dim lighting and the overhang of cigar smoke settled like a haze, a mask over his features that no one paid any mind to. A baggy windbreaker hid the details of his costume while he simply pretended the red helmet under his arm was for a motorcycle. Patrons seemed like the exhausted and no-fucks-given kind of crowd. No one really spoke to each other, sulking while their feet tapped stains imbedded in the dry red carpet. 

The pub had a really whiny jukebox in the corner near the stairwell. Whatever it was playing - some Alvin and the Chipmunks cover of what Jason figured might’ve been Nirvana - really didn’t fit the mood he was feeling. Despite the pressing situation at hand, he paused and dug around in the tight front pocket of his pants to fish out some quarters. He turned for the stairs once the track started; Elton John, _Tiny Dancer_. Why not? This was his show.

On the basement level, instead of tacky dark diamond-patterned wallpaper like the main room, the walls were barren concrete. There were cracks here and there, mold festering in the corners, a splintered wood door for the most insulting bathroom he ever had the misfortune of seeing, and finally a heavy bolted door at the end of the hall. It was like an art piece on display with how the single low-hanging bulb shined over it. After ditching his windbreaker in the bathroom and coming to a stop in front of the door, Jason finally put on his helmet. Work officially began.

  


In order to get in, the outlaw had to be a little more clever about how he approached the situation. A keypad above the doorknob was his ticket. He looked over the metal buttons - ' _Who the hell still uses these old ass clicking boards..?_ ' - and noticed that the two, seven, four, and pound keys were worn down almost beyond recognition. Seemed like a four-digit combo, which meant one of the numbers was repeated twice. Pound was usually put at the beginning or the end of a code to punch it into the locking mechanisms, so it was all just a matter of figuring out what exactly the sequence was.

He had half an hour until all players were set to arrive.

Piece of cake.

 

When the lock released and the doorknob turned like butter in his hand, Jason wanted to clobber some poor soul. Stepping into the room, he really couldn’t stop the words from coming off his tongue. "Really?" huffed the outlaw, "#2477? The most predictable combo? The first fuckin' _try_?! Whose dumb ass idea was that—" 

The room beyond was at least a little less depressing. It had a round, pearly white table in the middle that had a large ashtray at the center, crowded by refurbished chairs as if intended for a dining room. The floor had a thin layer of tightly woven green carpet, the walls bore only cracks and no mold (thank god), there was a wooden door at the back for some kind of storage, and a collapsible table against the left wall. A water pitcher, paper plates; practically the setup for a below-budget PTA. He could hear Elton John's voice through the ceiling as the sound keyed off and changed to the next track. Prince. At least he thought so.

Jason stuck a bug to the underside of the ashtray, the same sleek gunmetal color as the dish itself. If someone was paranoid enough to check - or smart enough - then it'd be hard to notice. Besides, he knew what he was doing. Next was to decide what he'd do in response. He could wait outside, obviously, a classic stakeout mission. He could see who came in and who left, but then if he settled for just recon he may not learn a damn thing. He was here now, standing in a poorly guarded lion's den with everything he could ever need. 

His mind basically made itself up; he was done waiting around any longer than he already had.

The outlaw slipped into the closet - definitely a place for brooms and sneaky ninjas - and kept his back to the wall. It was big enough that he could still maneuver, but small enough that he really...shouldn’t. Lights dimmed, his helmet quieted.

At twelve on the dot, the bolted door opened and two pairs of feet shuffled in. The microphones were live in his ears as Jason waited for the moment when people stopped arriving. At a quarter past twelve, silence fell. He counted all of about seven different people, each one waiting patiently - respectfully? - for whoever was in charge to take the lead. Suddenly, something heavy slammed down onto the center table. A man raised his voice in a way that overpowered the whisper of the planted bug. "Thank you for joining me, gentlemen," he said, smoothly, a little too easily. His tone declared importance but Jason could tell in an instant that it was arrogance; there was no denying that accent in his tone. He was the grime of Gotham through and through. 

He spoke with theatrics, "Through thick and thin, through the hurdles of betrayed loyalty and masked clowns, through all that Gotham herself has thrown in our way, you've done well to get here this evening. We've lost some of our men but it's a noble cause." 

Right. Nothing more noble than making a quick buck.

"Now." A pause, a click of a briefcase. _Classic_. "Let's discuss, shall we?"

 

Jason really wasn't one for business transactions. He couldn't stand the stuff, it was boring and confusing and literally wasted everyone's time. Which was a pretty tell-tale sign that the man leading the arrangement wasn't a natural crime boss. He merely adopted the title like it was a way to fill the time. It became increasingly difficult to focus, to not just kick the door down and make a guest appearance. They were just talking about splitting the profit and the percentages involved, nothing world-ending for sure. Exaggerating a silent yawn for his own amusement, Jason didn't tune back in until someone was clapping their hands together.

"That's all fine and well, sir," an older gentleman was saying, "but I still don't understand what you'll get out of this. We take over Gotham's northern end by buying it out completely, sure, and after that maybe the heart of the city. Then what?"

"We'll be filthy rich," came the response. "We'll be able to buy any service we desire, whether it be women—"

There were a few grumbles of agreement. Jason nearly shot them through the door.

"—or employing gangs—"

A rookie mistake. This guy seriously had no clue what he was doing.

"—or simply removing those that cause us problems. Them and their families."

Jason swallowed the growl that was only a hair away from exploding out of his throat.

Hands slapped against the table and someone else spoke up, much stronger, much more certain, and much more product oriented. It was hard to stomach the switch in atmosphere. "In the meantime," a man said, voice shrill and grating on Jason's ears, "we'll continue to improve Cespi until it becomes something _everyone_ is hooked on. It's detectable now, but maybe in the future, as we seep it into the veins of Hoboken, Newark, and maybe even New York itself, we'll have a clever enough team to make it vanish like a ghost. Use it in medicines, have it in all people. The old, the young, sons and daughters...!"

Jason almost threw up in his mouth. The man who led the meeting seemed to become uneasy as well, because he cleared his throat, struggling to find his voice again. "Yes, well, settle down... Don't get carried away." He wrestled back control from, likely, the genius behind the drug known as Cespi. "We take Gotham first. We monitor the side effects. We keep a low profile and remove those that threaten the progression."

 

Yeah. Right.

 

The door was weak on its hinges. All it took was a solid, raring kick next to the doorknob for it to go flying, splintering against the table across the way. Heads turned, faces paled, guns were drawn. Jason was hell on two legs. Shots went wild as everyone stumbled for the door.

He honestly didn't bother to spare them the courtesy of running a bullet through their chest. The source of Jason's focus was the two men that somehow made it into the hall before he could stop them; a boss and his madman wouldn't wait to see what happens next, valuing their lives above the others. Fair enough. Jason shot an older man in the hand, forcing him to drop his weapon before sweeping back to kick out the knees of the person on his left. Something gave way under the force, bringing the ghost of a satisfied smile to the outlaw's face.

No one had opposed the diabolical - and admittedly impossible - plan, so they deserved every ounce of pain he could impart on them.

After flinging another man over his shoulder and into the round table, Jason noticed that the briefcase had been left behind. There wasn't a single bag of Cespi in them, only bundles of cash and papers now splattered in blood. A crime boss didn't bring his homework to the office; where the hell did this lowlife come from?! If he hung back any longer, he'd likely lose the lead he didn't even manage to catch a proper glimpse of. Jason sent another shot over his shoulder before springing out into the hall.

 

He took the stairs two at a time, _three_ at a time, exploding from the lower level to the startled scream of the Hat's customers. The door slammed shut ahead of him, the window pane shaking in its place from the force. No one stood in Jason's way as he stormed into the street. Two black sedans with the lights off went screeching in opposite directions of each other, the scent of burning rubber hot in the spring air. He had to make a choice.

Biting back a swear Jason tucked his guns away and traded them for the grapple. He started at a run for the one heading east, took aim when a building taller than three stories came within reach, and swung himself off the ground. Honestly? The last thing Jason had expected was for the party to completely blow up in his face - for him to _allow_ it to blow up when he could've cut it off then and there - so his closest ride was still too far out.

No license plate to track, just a make and model. 

The driving was frantic at best, wobbly and uncoordinated. Uncertain. Likely the head honcho. Tucking his knees close to his chest, Jason rolled across the next rooftop, snatching his sidearm with his free hand. He was on his feet in seconds, taking aim in even less time than that. The rear windshield shattered and the sedan swerved, but it didn't stop. That meant he couldn't either.

 

Only he didn't get the option.

 

Whistling through the air over the street, something heavy came slamming into his body before he even knew it was there, knocking him flat onto his back. He ditched the grapple AND the gun, wrestling with whatever - _whoever_ \- had the balls to crash into him; he couldn't just leave them alone and continue after his target, because they were refusing to let up. Friend or foe - well, it didn't really matter, now did it? Jason managed to pin their hips down with his own weight in the end, sending a sharp strike into their jaw that knocked their head back against the concrete. Drawing his second gun out of his holster, he rested the point of the barrel against their forehead.

Their cowled forehead.

 

The eyes behind the cowl were wide and hysterical, the mouth that moved letting out no sound to make sense of. Their jaw was already bruising, the skin split and bleeding heavily down their neck. 

 

Jason nearly screamed in frustration.

 

"REPLACEMENT!" he bellowed, unable to even comprehend the _fucking idiot_ underneath him. He didn't holster the gun. If anything, he only dug it more aggressively against the leather. "You better have a fuckin' good reason for attacking me. For interrupting my _work_!"

Tim still seemed to be having some sort of fit, because he kept trying to claw his way free from under the outlaw. He couldn't find his tongue, couldn't find his breath. He looked on the verge of a panic attack. Jason had no sympathy for the kid who interrupted his case. Who let a crime boss with a seemingly twisted agenda get away. Through the haze of his anger, Jason barely caught the tail-end of a sentence.

He lifted the vigilante by his bandoliers. "Huh!?" he snarled. "Speak up already!"

"Didn't.... Didn't see..." Tim choked on his breath, his palms turned flat against the gravel. "Moving....too fast... Chasing a lead..."

 

Chasing a lead... _Literally?!_

 

Jason let him go unceremoniously with a growl. Clambering to his feet, he stared off in the direction his target had gone. They left no trace beyond the glass he had broken and the occasional skid mark. Once they realized he hadn't chased after them, they probably didn't grind their tires much more afterwards. Back to square one... 

He'd have to hack into the CCTV feed on the block to maybe plot a course. Trace all purchases of black sedans in the last week, stalk across northern Gotham, commit to more stakeouts than he already had. What a pain. Sirens were quickly barreling down on top of him; Jason couldn't afford to waste time thinking in a place like this. He stooped to pick up his discarded weapon and grapple gun - neither seemed damaged beyond a new scuff mark - and spun to face Tim. Who hadn't left yet.

In fact, the kid was sitting back on his heels, a hand placed on his head rather than on his jaw where he had an injury to account for. 

No, Jason wasn't going to apologize. It was Tim's own damn fault.

"Get up already, Replacement," Jason commanded. "We're gonna have a nice long chat about what the hell was so important that you had to go and ruin my case."

 

**.**

 

Maybe he had been lying. Maybe it was a half-truth. He didn't care about Tim's lead in the slightest. What he _did_ care about, however, was the fact that it was Tim of all people that he had bumped into. To think the kid would go on a run deeper into Crime Alley, as if the big bad Red Hood didn't already occupy the area... Well, now that Jason had the chance to clear his head, he actually wasn't too worried about what that meant for his own case.

Timothy Drake-Wayne, former Robin-turned-Red Robin and Jason’s successor, was brilliant. No doubt about that. He was smart, clever, a better detective than any of them had been during their tenure as the Boy Wonder, and quickly on his way to surpassing Batman; if he hadn’t already, that is. Tim wasn’t as physically strong as all of them but he could hold his own really well. 

When he tried, however? He could take over Gotham. Jason was almost certain of it. 

When he could be held accountable for screwing someone else over? A valuable asset.

 

They left Patty's Hat behind, Tim following silently as they swung to another part of the district. His silence had been a little weird at first but maybe this obedience was a good thing. Unlikely, though.

Jason crossed his arms over his chest and looked over the vigilante across from him. ' _Still tense,_ ' he noticed. Maybe he was focused on that lost lead of his? Instead, for a moment, it was as if something was wrong. Like, _really_ wrong. The 'God-is-dead-and-so-are-we' kind of wrong. It should've been obvious by now that the Jason wasn't about to rip his throat out. His anger had diffused a mile back and he wasn't actively trying to kick Tim's ass.

"Take a breather, Timbers," he chided with a shake of his head, "I'm not gonna do anything to you."

Barely more than a whisper. "I know..."

"Do you? Shit, are you actually hurt? I didn't hit you _that_ hard." Lies. He totally hit as hard as he was able in that moment of surprise.

 

Tim reacted fairly...normally. His own arms crossed over his chest, practically mirroring Jason's stance in a way that had the outlaw untangling from himself. "I'm peachy, Hood," he snapped. "And, look, I'm sorry I interrupted your case - I really am - but I have to get back to that lead of mine."

' _Back to business._ ' Jason waggled a finger in front of him, a devilish grin stretching under the cover of his hood. "I'm not gonna let you off the hook that easily, Red. You just undid weeks of progress and hours of diligent recon with that little stunt of yours. I've got the fate of Gotham in my hands, as usual, and now you've gotta make up the difference."

"What?!"

"You've been hanging around Burnley," he pointed out. "You've been tiptoeing through my turf. You've probably been exposed to this drug ring I'm shuttin' down. Just track down my guy and we'll be good."

 

The teen's interest seemed to pique for a second at the mention of Burnley. Even so, he was still acting weird; even by a Bat's standards. Tim's hands had come to rest in front of him, the fingers of one tapping along the gauntlet of the other. The kid was anxious, or stressed, or _something_ , because he wasn’t looking at Jason.  
The anxiety was ruled out after his cowl tightened over a thoughtful frown, as if he was trying to process something. Probably running the task through his head like a Microsoft system.

Good. He could work with Windows. 

Jason stalked over to the old, dry water tower that rested on the building's roof, leaning his weight against it as he watched Tim curiously. He began to give as bare-bones of an explanation as he could, "The guy I'm trying to hunt down is selling drugs that have the potential to become dangerous, and in the process he plans to buy up northern Gotham. All of his lackeys come from Burnley. Two of which—" He didn't mention that these two were the ones Tim took down, or that they didn't have a blatant connection to the case. "—use to work on Connelly Avenue. The boss is new to the crime scene. Handles it all like an actual business."

When Tim didn't respond right away, he prodded just that little bit more, head cocked to the side. "Make anything of that, princess?"

 

“I do.” Hands dropped, posture straightened, gaze focused in the dead center of the shiny red helmet across from him. Red Robin was back on Earth. “I do,” he said again, "but give me a minute to get everything together."

Jason waved his hand dismissively, offering an easy "Go wild" before crossing his legs at the ankles and tucking his hands under his arms. It had been a while - or maybe this was the first time - since he had seen Tim get to work in his own head. On a computer was one thing, but to be able to take a puzzle with so many loose pieces and no ends that actually fit together, from different sources, and make them _work_? It was otherworldly.

 

In about five seconds Tim was starting to pace across the roof, hand on his chin. Words flew from his mouth, either subconsciously or as a courteous way of keeping Jason in the loop. It was probably the former, really, but you could never be too sure. "Ackers worked on Connelly. The block shuts down and he goes after Burgess with some kind of hapless motivation," the teen said under his breath. It became incoherent after a while. Jason could only catch bits and pieces after that. "...paranoid on the news, that same night is targeted by guys working under a bigger boss...a man who has only ever stolen a car can't just up and shoot someone..."

He was pivoting later and later than when he started, wandering precariously close to the edge of the roof.

 

" _Your_ crime boss wants to buy out northern Gotham. _His_ boss already bought out the whole block that's under construction."

 

"Yeah. Yeah, that's nice— Hey kid, watch where you're stepping, will ya?"

 

" _Your_ boss is a businessman whose underlings come from Burnley."

 

"No, really, that shit looks kinda close..." Jason had long since left his spot against the legs of the water tower. 

 

"It _is_ close, I think you're right." He wasn't listening. "They may seem like completely unrelated vectors, in a way, but I get the feeling it's much deeper than that. Or maybe not, and it's something as simple as your guy might be my guy. If he's circulating drugs for a profit it'd explain a lot."

 

"Tim. _Seriously_."

 

"Are we working together on this then? It's just as much my case as it is yours. Even if you say—!!"

 

God. He saw it coming a mile away. 

 

When Tim let out a sudden shout, when his next step completely cleared the raised lip of the roof's edge and fell through the air, Jason lunged forward. He dug his heels into the concrete, snagging onto the leather cape that billowed out behind the teen as he began to fall. There was a hard smack against the stone from where Tim came swinging back against it, the scuff of his boots desperately looking for something to secure a footing on. Not enough momentum had been behind the drop to take Jason down as well, but there really was no denying the thundering beat in his chest. It felt like he just dropped down Niagara Falls.

He took a knee and sighed. "Do you _always_ pace right off the top of fifteen story buildings..?!"

There was a cough, a slight shift tension in the cape as Tim tried to loosen the constriction around his throat. "Not- Not really. This might...be a first..."

".....What the _fuck_ , Red..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I didn't muck up Jason too much. I'll try to refine him a bit more as we progress.  
> (I had to change the rating because my potty mouth was getting the better of me)
> 
> Thank you to those who waited, I hope this was worth it :)


	4. What's That Supposed to Mean?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to nail home what he _knew_ was a bigger deal than it appeared at first glance, Tim will have to work with Jason as he gets back into the swing of things. Should be simple enough. Jason isn't dumb by any means, but... He certainly hasn't noticed anything to be particularly wrong.
> 
>  
> 
> But the individual focus of each case will diverge at a pivotal moment, and a choice needs to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt a little more sloppy. Like I said, going from sight to blind in narrative is a lot more difficult; especially when there's more dialogue. It's also needlessly long because I don't know how to pace things out. I had a plan and tried too hard to fit the details. I'll hopefully come back to this and adjust it but, for now....
> 
> I hope you enjoy

As far as HE knew, he didn't have that bad of a habit when it came to pacing. Sometimes he never paced at all. He blamed the bad trip on the fact that this was his first "big" case - though it wasn't big, really, not by their standards - and he forgot how to handle himself. In hindsight, Tim figured it was the sudden rush of information. Jason Todd had something he needed? Jason Todd was _giving_ it to him?

Forgive him for getting a tad bit too excited.

No, he didn't typically pace. Eyes would wander, jaw would clench. Occasionally a foot would start tapping, but he didn't pace. So when his eyes couldn't soak in the environment like it use to, his legs made up for it. Right off the rooftop. If crashing into the Red Hood, ruining his case, getting a gun to his head and everything in between while trapped in the dark had been scary, this was a nightmare. It was a miracle he even found his voice at all, kicking against the bricks of the housing unit against his back.

When Jason offered a disbelieving, "What the _fuck_ , Red..." Tim almost agreed. That might've been too suspicious.

 

It took some time getting back onto solid ground. Familiar and ongoing vibrations wracking through the soles of his boots. Somewhere to his left was surely Jason, not daring to get much closer than he needed to; yet not standing too far away that Tim's censors - unbeknownst to the outlaw - couldn't pick him up. It was like an accidental courtesy.

A nagging in the back of his mind told Tim that he had been playing the game too warmly. His guard wasn't nearly as high as it usually was. As it _use_ to be. He'd have to fix that - starting right now. It began by quickly getting to his feet and clearing his throat, keeping his posture straight with certainty. Jason gave a small grunt of annoyance when he did nothing after that. This gave Tim a direction, a height, and a perfect mental target; turning his head sharply, he looked dead into the eyes of the expressionless helmet. 

He said, "Well?"

The grunt returned, only this time it had a slight inflection ribbed throughout. Heavy boots scuffed against the concrete. "Well what?" Jason asked, "Did you just— Are you just gonna act like you didn't just—!"

"Are we working together on this or not?"

 

Biting silence, then the drag of the same boot when Jason took a step away. "Not." 

Tim responded by taking a sure step forward as he wore his displeasure clearly on his face. "We should," he argued.

"No. I don't want a miniature Batman telling me how to run my case or telling me what I can or can't do. This isn't a team-up, Red, this is you making up for utterly fucking my job." 

The anger was so clearly there, tangible and hot in the air. There was something physical about the words that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Finding novelty in conversation disappeared after two weeks of being without his sight but, for some reason, Tim was drawn in all over again. He hadn't spoken to Jason since _before_ the accident, hadn't really recognized anything in his speech patterns that would trigger such an interest. What made now any different?

He'd look into it.

 

In the meantime, however, he'd stick a little pin in the man's side. A little itch. Tim crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, letting the tension in his features melt away, wanting to keep things as amicable as possible while he still could. Part of him wanted to work together for some ungodly reason, part of him wanted to get out of this situation as soon as possible. He sighed, "I'm not going to track down your bad guy, Hood. But I will give you his name; surely you can figure out the rest."

"Fine. Whatever. I didn't actually need your help." The distance between them had grown. Tim no longer felt the soft vibrations across his chest.

"If it's the same person, his name is Jedediah Marano. Like I said before, he basically owns the entire block where Connelly and DuBois intersect." The vigilante proceeded to uncross his arms, opting to take out a grapple gun instead of just letting his fingers twitch aimlessly. Jason wasn't making very many noises or comments, which made the whole process just that little bit more curious. It was like talking to the darkness itself, waiting for it to sigh or give some indication that it heard. "He has a track record of getting out of jail scotch free - likely buying his own get out of jail free cards - so take a wild guess where he might get the money to do that."

A faint hum of thought. Jason was piecing it together.

 

With the slight passing of his hands, Tim tapped the right gauntlet. An automated voice responded in his ear: " _East._ " He had his orientation. Pointing his grapple behind him, the vigilante risked the danger. He dared to make that one little comment that would either get him killed or result in him getting a phone call the next day. "The offer stands," he simply said, "because I think you'll want my help. You know where to reach me."

Jason scoffed. "Whatever you wanna tell yourself, princess." 

The sound of pistons pressurizing and steel hooks whistling into the Gotham night were like mere echoes of each other. Tim left the ground first - the whine of the chord retracting was very distinct, his happening just a few seconds before Jason's did - but there was this weird certainty in his chest as his body fell back into the swing of motion; he'd hear from Jason soon.

  


\+ +

  


Tim kept one hand on the bathroom sink at all times, staring blankly ahead at what would've been his sullen reflection. The toothpaste felt especially minty that afternoon and made his jaw ache. It only worsened the burn on his skin from where Jason slugged him the night prior. Not _totally_ deserved in his opinion, but they were past that. 

Stumbling sluggishly out into the main living room, he let his wristbands guide him around the floor. He had grown comfortable using the bare minimum in his own home. He had been in the dark just long enough to know, by heart, where every wall ended and the furniture began. He knew the exact dimensions of every floorboard, knew how many paces at different speeds could get him from Point A to Point B. It was practically child's play. Since it was _his_ house, that meant he could keep his arms up like a zombie for however long he pleased.

Living like this... It really was easy. He leaned over the top of the couch with practiced grace, flipped open the laptop that rested in its usual spot among the cushions and woke it up. While it whirred to life, he did some stretches in the middle of the floor, testing his reach when it came to what he _knew_ would be the leg of the dining room table or the corner of the rug. His phone remained silent in the meantime. It stood to be nothing more than a faint inkling at the back of his senses.

 

The computer began to chirp its responses, reading the file Tim had been adding onto for the past few days like clockwork. He only tuned in when it mentioned the particular lead he stumbled across last night. " _Unidentified person arrives at Acker residence quarter to midnight,_ " it reads. Tim slinked onto the couch as he tried to envision the scenario in his head, but it was flooded with muted grays. Understandable. After all, the details currently being ran through the computer were the Spark Notes version that he carried over from the descriptive video feed.

" _Figure stands in front of the entry for fifteen minutes. At midnight, they shift, but don't move beyond original position. A ringing can be heard coming from the seventh floor, a room along the front wall where Acker family presides._ " It pauses and so does he. Tim pulled his knees up to his chest, closing his eyes to both ease the burn behind the soft tissue as well as try to imagine the scenario better. This was the part that began to strike him as odd, as something worth noting. There's a click, then it continues, " _A woman's voice responds, but asks multiple times if there's someone there before hanging up on her own. Figure begins to move quickly away from the complex. Gradual pursuit begins..._ "

 

When it came to designing the new system laced throughout his things, not once did it even cross the teen's mind that he may have to keep track of someone on the street while he remained high up. At the time, he figured it would've been difficult, but once activity in the surrounding environment increased, everything became just that little more overwhelming; he lost track of the target just four blocks into Crime Alley. His swinging became frantic, his movements erratic. Then, he collided with the Red Hood.

After that, tracing the unidentified person became impossible. His active database - ten hours later - was still having a hard time putting a name to the face. They likely had bundled themselves up so well that Tim's camera wasn't able to get a good image. If he had to take an educated guess? It was someone under Marano, which didn't exactly narrow down the list of possibilities but at least there was some flexibility there.

On the end table to his left, his phone started ringing, loud and painfully stark against the stillness, transmitting a signal to the laptop so he could at least see - _ha_ \- who it was. It took a few clicks of the operating system before it relayed that it was an unknown, untraceable number. Only a few people could reach his private number and still be "untraceable". Tim had to rub away the cheeky smirk pulling across his mouth before he answered.

 

"You've reached Tim. May I ask who's calling?"

 

The cheeky attitude was still there. Heaven forbid.

 

"The muffin man. Who do you think?" came the quick retort, followed closely by, "You're up weirdly early, Timmy. Don't tell me you're getting sick again. Except maybe do."

 

"I'm hanging up." He made no effort to lower the phone away from his face or hover his thumb over the button.

 

Jason sucked in a quick breath. "No, wait," he said, "I was kiddin'." Pausing, he eventually continued, starting slowly as if talking made him uneasy. "Marano is...slippery. I've tried to find the car he got away in but there are loads of black sedans with the rear windshield blown out. It's Gotham - go figure, right?"

 

Tim hummed in agreement. "Don't know what you expected there."

 

"I've looked into the block you mentioned, found the deeds, tried to trace it to the man himself. He's gotta have a place where he's storing the drugs. Hell, maybe he even owns where they're making it. Bastard's just paranoid enough to keep himself from being found." The _By me at least_ was left unspoken. 

But that was okay.

 

Deep down, Tim was just impressed that Jason actually ended up calling him. It must've been tough to swallow the pride to do it, but maybe Jason's side of the case was more serious than it initially seemed. Drugs were a dime a dozen so it shouldn't have been anything new. ' _What else is he not telling me..._ ' Tim silently wondered. He didn't want to prod too far and piss off the other, but if it was somehow worse than what was actively circulating through Gotham's streets he had a right to know.

 

Shrugging it off for now, the teen decided to get to work; Jason was waiting for him to say something on the other end of the line. Tim smiled in spite of himself. "You'll let me help?" he asked first.

There was only a moment of hesitation before Jason sighed. "Fine. It's a team-up. But _handling_ it falls under my jurisdiction. Capiche?"

 

"Capiche."

 

**.**

 

For better or worse, Jason was the one he teamed up with first on the road back to his familiar standing as Tim Drake. As Red Robin. A little rough on the edges - a little rough in the same way a saw blade is a "little rough" - and sometimes quick to anger, the outlaw wasn't all that bad. He didn't leave Tim with the same emptiness or desire to see the little details like Cass had - even if it was just a phone call - which was greatly appreciated. He only threatened to shoot him once, though Tim was fairly confident that the safety was on at the time. He was casual. He was easy to work with.

He didn't nag Tim either. When the going seemed slow, when nothing would come up or Tim would mutter to himself in irritation, Jason didn't throw a fit.

 

Multitasking wasn't difficult by any means, but when Tim had to process what was going on in both ears it became near-impossible to separate pointless chatter from the important stuff his computer was relaying. Jason couldn't hear it like he could; before he got busy, he plugged in the same extension he used on the Batcomputer. Additionally, he had a live video feed playing on the TV across from him of the Acker residence in Burnley. Underneath the main drone of everyday life in the streets was soft descriptive whispers. He caught bits and pieces, sure, but it ended up just being background noise.

If he could see it, then the slightest changes in the stream would catch his attention. Tim had to be very selective about what information he processed at what time. When Jason asked a question, he had to be able to surmise what exactly had come out over the receiver and construct a solid answer. It was tedious - god was it tedious, he wished there were other ways to go about it - but they made progress.

And it was good progress, the kind that had Jason whistling on the other end of the line. "Color me impressed," he mused. "You're definitely good help."

 

"Told you."

 

"I'm surprised he's getting back to work so soon."

 

Tim rolled the cursor over to the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen. "What do you mean?" he asked loosely. 7:45. They'd certainly been busy. Seeing as how it was still early April, the sun had likely dipped far down below the Gotham skyline by then. It was a miracle Jason hadn't ended the call yet; he had muted his end a few times to shower and make himself food, to do whatever it is Jasons do, but he never actually hung up. 

 

A mug was set down harshly on a countertop, the rattle coming through the other line. Jason huffed like he raised his shoulders only to drop them immediately after. "After as big of a scare as I personally handed him?" he asked in return, "Dude didn't sound like the type to keep chugging after something like that."

 

"Fair enough," said Tim, tilting his head back against the cushions, "though it didn't sound like he had a deadline to meet either."

 

"Does he not think I'm gonna go after him?"

 

Tim didn't answer that.

 

Instead, he was giving himself a mental pat on the back. Despite being without his sight, despite relying on muscle memory and navigating an overly intricate system, he had done all that he intended to do. Marano didn't want to be found - that much was true, as even Tim struggled to find basic leads - but he didn't account for Red Robin pinpointing his every move; he'd left the Bluetooth on for one of his devices. Tim figured it was a random backup phone but the familiarity Marano texted with suggested otherwise. Whatever the case may have been, texts from his iPhone had been flying into the datastream for the past few hours.

He never mentioned the panic Marano displayed from last night's encounter with -- _A big scary thug with guns and a bright red helmet! I didn't want to believe the rumors, but he's real!_ \-- because a certain someone would've gotten a little too big for his britches. 

 

The mention of networks rubbed him as curious when the message was sent out earlier that morning. Jason wondered if he meant network as in a networking system (electronic) or as in a connections (people) sort of way. The longer Tim listened to the automated voice as it read each message, the more he realized that it might've been a _literal_ network. A connection of underground pathways. When he looked, each of the buildings Marano had purchased over time all had some kind of subterranean level - whether it be a basement or just a different floor entirely. Not only that, but the construction on Connelly and DuBois affected ALL levels of the complex. Construction was happening below ground just as much as it was above.

If there was a network of basements, surely someone would've noticed.

Or they did and just so happened to be paid to look a different direction. You never could tell with this sort of thing.

 

His suspicions were confirmed at 3 o'clock when Marano told an Unknown Number that there had been a malfunction at Gotham Gears, which happened to be the name of the mechanic shop Henry Acker previously worked at. Jason made a smartass comment about how bosses were never creative with codenames anymore. Tim elected to ignore him.

  


At the current moment? 7:50? Marano sent out that final message to put the gears into motion: -- _You're out of your mind if you think I'm not going to come supervise. Someone has to._

 

"Bingo," Jason announced, his voice sounding very far away. "Well, looks like we've got our location, a general time frame, and a target. All in a day's work."

 

Tim couldn't help but agree. Dragging the pads of his fingers over the keyboard, he said, "I have this weird feeling that you're not going to settle for a stakeout."

 

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I've done enough stakeouts and they were all in the wrong places. I'm stopping this tonight."

 

A weird, tense pause followed.

 

"You're not going to stop me, right?" Jason's voice was like crystal china. Crisp, clear, the only thing he could hear even with the TV's drone in the background. It carried the inflection of a question but, because he knew about the underlying danger, it quite clearly wasn't. It was a threat.

 

Tim swallowed and got to work typing up a storm, a file to send the outlaw's way so that they had the same information. "Your case," he answered. "Your jurisdiction. I'm just here for the ride."

 

"Good. So, what time—"

 

There was a sudden, thundering knock on the door that had Tim's entire body seizing up. He hadn't been expecting any visitors. He didn't.... _have_ visitors, not at the place he considered his homiest safehouse. Not since he took a break seven weeks ago. Pausing to send the file Jason's way, he took his time. Closing the laptop was a slow ordeal. Setting it aside was even slower.

Earlier he had taken pride in his navigational skills, but was now feeling like a fish out of water. He didn't realize he had managed to convince himself that the darkness surrounding him wasn't actually pitch black until there was another knock that shattered the placebo. Another sign that he had to be both cautious as well as capable of putting on a show at a moment's notice. Tim gradually stood up with his face towards the door, only remembering the phone on the couch when Jason called out to him.

"Dude, what's wrong?" he demanded, "What's going on?"

 

"Nothing." Easy enough, convincing enough. "Someone's here..." Tim's blood suddenly ran cold when he realized he never got a notification from his security system - despite being enabled and _improved_ since the last one. Whoever it was bypassed it completely. Without him noticing.

That, or he forgot to sync it to the new audio-descriptive setting.

Both possibilities made his skin clammy with adrenaline.

 

"Pizza guy?" asked Jason.

 

He had waited too long. From the other side of his locked door, a voice whined, "TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIM!"

 

"....See ya later." Jason hung up once he recognized the voice. Tim couldn't entirely blame him.

 

Crossing the floor in five strides, he dragged his hands over the surface of the door. Finding the chain latch, he undid it, letting the weight fall limply against the thick wood. He flicked the deadbolt and had all of about two seconds to jump out of the way as the door was thrown open, staggering back in his haste. Long arms wrapped around Tim's torso before bringing him close to another body. 

Despite now knowing who it was, that didn't stop him from becoming panicked, tensing in his brother's hold.

That didn't seem to stop Dick, however, who only tightened his embrace even more. 

 

Dick, who, in a sudden assault against the senses, smelt of Irish Spring soap, a thin veiling of leather upholstery from the inside of a clean car, and balsamic dressing on his breath. 

Dick, who, in a full bodied grasp, flexed with the languid fluidity of a river as he scooped the younger off his feet. 

Dick, whose voice was like the melody of a pop song meant only for dancing and nothing else.

Dick, whose colors were blue. Bright. Free.

 

Tim got over his shock and spike of adrenaline pretty quickly as the things that made up Dick Grayson came together in a flood. He could practically envision the other in front of him, enveloping him, but there were no solid shapes. Which, honestly, would've struck him as mildly concerning if Dick hadn't gone flying off the handrails. He was set back on his feet but never held at more than an arm's length away.

"Barbara said you got into trouble last night!" the acrobat gushed, "She saw you run into _Jason_ with a CCTV across the street— Is that from him?" Long fingers curled under Tim's jaw, the contact warm and soft, tender with care as his head was tilted upward. "Oh man, it's bruising pretty badly... But it's healing. He didn't do anything else to you, did he?"

It was hard to find his voice for a second. He was so enraptured by the physicality that was _Dick_. The exact opposite of Cass - she was an energy - and complementary to Jason - he was a voice - but so familiar, in a way that rivaled both with how present he was. How in the "now" he felt. Tim always knew Dick was a physical person, this was just a different.... Different way of understanding him.

Cass made him want his sight.

Jason made him curious.

Dick made him _see_.

 

Still, he had a game to play. 

 

"Nothing else," he reassured the elder, reaching up to pat at his wrist. "I was careless and bumped into him - literally. Interrupted his case, too, apparently."

 

"Ooo... I bet he didn't like that much." The hand on his chin dropped to his shoulder, giving a friendly squeeze before steering him back into the sanctum that was the apartment. Tim quickly dropped his hands to let his wristbands give him an indicator for what was nearby with Dick at the helm.

 

"He didn't," Tim confirmed, "but he let it go after I gave him some information that helped him make up for the loss of progress."

 

"That's my Timmy. I swear, you've got something for everyone's case in that noggin of yours."

 

Well, he wasn't wrong. Tim had a reputation.

 

He counted ten short paces before snagging onto the back of the couch, leaning against it with his head cocked to the side. Dick required near-constant entertainment. Cues that he had his full attention. Tim needed to be extra attentive; while he didn't always donate 100% of his energy to the people he conversed with due to work, right now he didn't have the excuse of his laptop. And, even if he did, Dick was a detective too. He'd notice the pauses Tim took to listen to the system. Essentially, it was too risky. He settled for a light display of interest, making sure to stay locked onto Dick's position at all times. "What brings you over?" he finally asked.

Dick moved away to sit on the dining room table - the wood legs scraped against the floor, the table itself creaked a noise of complaint - before responding, "I was just checking up on you. After I heard about Jason I was especially worried, but you're still getting over your flu. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

 

"I'm fine," said Tim with a slow nod, "I mean, I'm getting antsy from being on light duty, and sooner or later I have to get back to W.E., but I'm fine."

 

Dick laughed. "Such a busy body, Tim, I swear. One of these days you should really take a vacation."

 

"I don't do vacations."

 

"You don't _do_ anything except work. I mean, look at you!" The table groaned. The elder likely threw his hand up to gesture. "You're running a live surveillance feed on your personal TV instead of watching a movie or old reruns. Do you ever take a break?"

 

This time it was Tim's turn to throw his head back and laugh, a sound his brother was quick to echo. "Dick, you know me. This _is_ a break."

They laughed and joked like it was second-nature. Which, really, it probably was. He just couldn't remember the last time they talked casually instead of for work. Playing the game with Dick was easy as well, much easier than with Jason or Cass because Dick was just that. Easier. He was trusting and honest, and worried too much over others. Tim knew that if he got called out on his behavior, all he'd have to say was that he was tired and Dick would believe him.

It was that simple.

 

Their voices died down for a moment - one, single moment - as both searched for something new to talk about. But that break was all either of them needed; a high, distant shriek emanated from the TV. Tim was whirling around in spite of himself, eyes stretching wide as he stared blankly at the screen. He felt Dick coming up behind him, tense and tall. They were watching the video feed - Tim was listening, scooping up the remote from its place nestled between couch cushions, where he remembered it had slipped two hours prior, and cranking up the volume as high as it would go.

It was a little girl screaming for help. 

Screaming to be let down. 

Screaming for her dad. 

Tim all but chucked the remote to the floor, storming towards his room with so much speed that he nearly collided with the door frame. He was tearing off his clothes hastily, flinging his wristbands to the farthest corners of the likely dark room. Blindly trudging across the floor in search of his uniform, he heard Dick's worried tone from the living room. "Tim..." There were a few heavy steps that came to a stop in front of the door, just as Tim was dropping to the ground and stuffing his arms into his sleeves. "Tim," he said again, "where is that camera?"

 

"Burnley. Warner Street, building 405."

 

"I'll meet you there. I'm giving Babs a description of the vehicle."

 

"Got it."

 

Of course Dick was going to help. Tim wasn't at all surprised; a little girl was kidnapped before their very eyes. If his suspicions were correct, then it was the same one who scoped out the building the night before. Neither spoke a word as Dick left the apartment and Tim finished dressing up in costume.

The night had only just begun.

  


\+ +

  


"Her father, and subsequently the family as a whole, has been a target once or twice before," Tim was explaining over the comms. "The eldest daughter, Elsa, goes to an after-school care program until closing hours before walking home. It's not a far walk, it doesn't cost extra, so there was no apparent in harm in letting her continue the routine after Acker lost his job."

 

"He got mixed up with the wrong crowd and he didn't worry about his daughters?" Dick asked in return.

 

"He did. He does. But maybe he didn't think they'd stoop so low as to attack children."

 

"Maybe."

 

They met on the roof of Henry Acker's building - Nightwing and Red Robin, with Oracle on standby in their ears - comparing the details they had so far. What they knew right out the gate was that the car had been heading south but could've changed course at any moment. The vehicle had no license plate (go figure), was all black with tinted windows, and there was one culprit. Only one.

Tim's system still, to that very moment, had no ID match on the man. 

 

Barbara was working overtime to track the vehicle but even at nine o'clock, the traffic was dense all throughout Gotham. Black cars with tinted windows was a painfully common description. They didn't have a direction to go in. They had _nothing_. Tim grew anxious, scaling the side of the neighboring building to investigate the camera he placed as if that would help their case. Though he couldn't see the device itself, his fingers traced useless circles on the bolts and lens, searching for some wordless clue. He was rusty at a lot of things, including tracking, but that very fact made guilt constrict around his throat.

Retracting his grapple to climb back onto the roof, there was a tremor along his shoulders that suggested Dick was waiting for him. "We can split up," he said, "make a pass through the neighboring districts, head further south. There's got to be something we can follow."

 

"I think I have something," Barbara suddenly cut in. "Dillon and Verne Avenue in Upper East Side, a black car caught in a strip of congestion is rocking on its suspension. No signs of animals, could be ours."

 

Dick hummed. "As good a place to start as any. Red Robin, what's the plan?"

 

As a matter of fact, Tim _didn't_ have a plan. He was going to get lost again. He was going to lose track of this one sliver of a lead and risk the safety of the girl. Barbara wouldn't be able to ID the man if Tim hadn't already, they had so much ground to cover and no other information that could triangulate a final location; this was the first kidnapping of its kind, one that coincidentally aligned with a bunch of other crimes at once.

The first was always the hardest.

This should've been only a challenge at most. This should've been trivial. 

He lost his sight, not his mind. He still had his skills - _why weren't they of any use to him now_?! Opening his mouth to provide some kind of insight, some kind of rough draft of what their next steps should be, a pouch on his utility belt vibrated aggressively, shocking him out of his hesitation. Slapping a hand to his hip, Tim flicked open the clasp on the left pouch and drew the phone out of his belt - he had only barely remembered to grab it off the couch before he sprung out through the window. The voice in his ear chimed repeatedly, " _Number not found. Number not found._ " Tim's jaw dropped.

Timing was utterly terrible, circumstances were even worse. He barely hit the answer button with the slip of his thumb and the voice on the other end of the line was almost drowned out by the thunder of automatic rifles, still it came blistering through the receiver.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!?"

The call went dead. Off to Tim's right, something exploded.

 

He felt so painfully lost, so painfully small....

 

Dick filled the void with his voice, close and taut in the younger's ear as he stood close. "Oracle, what just happened?!"

 

"Explosion on Connelly and DuBois," she quickly answered. "Construction accident most likely, nothing to get excited about. I'm dispatching the fire department now—"

 

Tim reached out suddenly and snagged Dick's arm, craning his neck to peer blankly up at his brother. "It's not a construction accident," said the teen, "it's an underground network where a new drug is suspected to be manufactured and handled. The crime boss is suppose to be there tonight— Oh, hell, Jas— Hood is probably there right now. I can't believe I left him alone..!"

He felt Dick's muscles go tight under his grip as he repeated, clearly caught off guard, " _Red Hood_?! Why are you even hanging out with him?"

 

"It's not hanging out, it's cooperating. Our cases lined up for a moment— What the hell, Nightwing, that's not even the point!" Tim dropped his arm and stomped past the other. His brain was working at full speed again, but it wouldn't be fast enough. It simply couldn't be; somehow, he had already bitten off more than he could chew. "He's in trouble and I should be there. I _should've_ been there, the one time he actually asked for help.

"Elsa needs me now," he said, "and I... She's part of _my_ case. Oracle, where's that car at right now?"

 

Silence for a moment, likely because Barbara was confirming whether or not the vehicle was theirs. "It just popped an illegal U-turn heading north."

 

"Copy."

 

"Red Robin." Dick suddenly had a hand on Tim's shoulder, catching him by surprise and cutting through the adrenaline like a knife. The vibrations were so powerful that, for a moment, the teen worried Dick might've been able to feel it. "I'll see what I can do here," he said, "We can't move without some kind of clear clue and there's no guarantee that this is even our guy."

The grip tightened immensely. Careful, worried, like Dick was both reluctant and uncertain about what he was implying. Even Tim wasn't sure if he was understanding correctly. Dick's voice bobs, likely with a nod of his own head. "I could go with you?" he offers, "To help Hood. Oracle can keep tabs all the way through and we'll both be in the loop."

 

For a moment, Tim considers it. Honest and truly really considers it. Too much is riding on his own security, Jason's safety, and the wellbeing of a girl who got nabbed by an unnamable mad man. Jason was trained by Batman, he was dangerous in his own right and he was strong. This...this was all in the job description; this kind of danger was to be expected and accounted for. He would be fine with or without Tim's help.

 

A little girl wouldn't be. Yet she was in just as much danger if they moved preemptively. Perhaps Dick working on the sidelines would allow them a better grip on the situation. Tim was too...too _broken_ to be of any help to anyone. Especially Elsa.

 

Who knew how many Jason was up against. 

Who knew what was even below that street...

 

' _Who knew he'd actually call for me..._ '

 

Tim dug through his utility belt for his grapple gun. There was no need for him to get his bearings - the sound of the explosion was still clear in his mind. He turned his head towards Dick, lips pursed tightly over his face. Despite how physical his brother's existence was in his mind, Tim deeply wished he could see Dick's expression, could read what exactly it was going on inside his head when he fired the hook off into the dark. A pat against his shoulder was the only bit of encouragement he really needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll do my best to fix any mistakes I see, any parts I don't particularly like. Let me know what you guys thought in the meantime, though.


	5. "Nothing... It's Nothing."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to wrap up the case of Cespi in one fell swoop, Jason's down to handle the buried network - on his own. He preferred it that way, anyways.
> 
> It ends up looking like a one-way ticket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed that all of my chapters so far have a summary that's like "Nothing goes according to plan". I'm determined to change that. Need to mix it up every now and again.
> 
>  
> 
> Please enjoy! I think this might’ve been one of my favorite chapters to read/write so far

It was just late enough to excuse getting busy and yet still early enough that plenty could be accomplished if he was clever. If things went according to plan. Which, of course, they seldom did.

He had every reason to believe that, this time, things would. He had a direct link to Red Robin - all plans and no fun - so the resolution to a week's long endeavor was clockwork. Decorated to the teeth, masked, armored, and with a deep seeded desire to undo all of Marano's progress, Jason waited patiently across the street from Gotham Gears. 

There were about five different groups that entered through the taped front doors. The two leaving between then and the present moment had not a single face he recognized. In short? Too many people for a building under construction. Tim's theory on the interconnected basements seemed the most probable.

 

Jason scowled, crouched on the edge of a rooftop with his arms folded over the tops of his knees. It was getting late and he heard no word from the teen since their call ended. They didn't make any arrangements over when they'd meet, what time they'd bring the whole operation down - or _how_ they'd go about it, but Tim didn't put up too much of a fight. It truly seemed like he was letting the ball rest in Jason's court; it was actually his choice. A little...different from how he remembered the Bats to operate - with Damian as an exception from time to time - but he had been grateful.

Still, that didn't excuse the fact that Tim was taking his sweet ass time to get there. 

Dick was a distracting person but Tim was proactive. A conversation wouldn't just cut into his night work all willy nilly, so he must've had something else of a higher priority and couldn't be bothered to send a text.  
Or he started later than Jason.  
_Or_ he didn't understand the importance of finishing the job as soon as possible.

 

Jason was getting tired of waiting. This couldn't be allowed to go on much longer; not while Marano's "ambitious" dealer continued to have some kind of influence on the street's drug intake. He was the main issue here.

He waited a solid _forty-five minutes_ for Tim to make his appearance, occasionally rotating his position to get different angles of the target. Cars were few, activity was slim. Once it became obvious that the underground was getting busier - evident by the decrease of people leaving the shop and the clatter echoing through the pipes lining building corners - Jason simply couldn't continue to sit by. He wasn't inherently an impatient person, not when there was a lot of stuff riding on the success of a mission, but when he was partially acting out of spite towards a self-absorbed Batling? Yeah, well, it wasn't the same.

Honest and truly, he never wanted to get Tim roped into this. The little control freak could dictate every outcome and act accordingly in order to get Jason to go by _his_ rules; all while making it seem like it had been of Jason's own free will. With Bruce, with Bats, he had a particular knack for defying those kind of antics. But Tim? Tim had a way of making him go along with his plans like a hog on a leash. 

Maybe it was because he was short - then that'd have to apply to every one other than Bruce which, honestly, could've been the case - or maybe it was because of those doe eyes of his. Which didn't make too much sense, considering he hadn't looked Tim face to unmasked face in quite a while.

Maybe because Tim didn't suck and didn't treat him like he was lesser. There were the occasional bouts of fear but nothing the kid couldn't get over on his own. He didn't try to spin the conversation around to "If only you" this or "Bruce would be" that. He had yet to attack Jason over his killing policy - ' _Surely Tim knows I'm not gonna spare these fuckers?_ ' - so maybe it was that.  
Maybe it was that Tim didn't antagonize him.

 

While he liked the different breed of attention, he hated it just as much because it was totally manipulative.

All of the mini-Bats were manipulative.

He wasn't exempt from this either.

 

At a quarter to nine, _impossibly_ early for vigilantism, Jason made his move, climbing down the side of Gotham Gears at a gradual pace. He didn't try the front door - that was a stupid idea through and through - but instead opted for the rear entrance. The garage was back there, door open just a crack with the chain that controlled its pulley scraping loosely against the concrete floor. Jason ducked down close to the dirt and grime, peering underneath to get a read on what awaited him.

In the dark room there was no red blip of a camera or security system, no dim light to suggest someone was in the office, no steam of a freshly microwaved Lean Cuisine or cheap coffee. It was lifeless. Jason would've thought the whole place abandoned had he not seen the groups that waddled in. _Or_ felt the rumble of activity under the surface.

First thought? Someone was drilling through to China.

Second thought? ' _That's gotta be a_ lot _of machines..._ '

Reason said to turn back. Persistence said to chug onward.

 

He reached underneath the garage door and curled his fingers around the dense links of the chain, listening to the rhythm that shook his ribs until he had it down by memory. It was a continuous rumble with a hitch every fifteen seconds. All Jason needed was a solid tug to give him an adequate amount of clearance. After the next hitch, he yanked down, hard and fast, rolling into the garage and catching the chain right when the next hitch happened.

The rumble continued, unbothered.

No one noticed the grinding sound of the metal door or the rattle of its pulley. He was in the clear.

 

Jason rose to his full height, giving himself a quick pat down to make sure he had everything he needed. He could've brought the shotgun he nabbed earlier in the week but decided against it, not wanting Tim to make a comment about how it was _awfully_ familiar or scowl under his cowl like he was pissed (which he probably would've been). Still, beyond the shotgun, he had more than enough ammunition to take out a drug ring; ammo for his handguns, some minor explosives, smoke pellets, the usual arrangement of knives across his person, a taser for fun, etcetera. Not too hard to get the picture.

Before he would go find the stairs down to the basement, he spared a moment to check his phone. Just in case, he reasoned, but as he expected there was still no message from Tim. No indication that he was on the way or even aware of whatever the hell was going on. Jason could've messaged him first - in hindsight, maybe he should've - yet there was no point. He could do this alone.

 

Creeping down the stairs behind a heavy wood door, there were a few things that started to rub him the wrong way. To start, the air was thick and filled with an array of aromatics - sweet was one of the words that kept bobbing around in his head. From what he knew of Cespi, it was a drug that could be snorted or straight up _chewed_. Jason had inspected the crushed version himself, but never would've called it sweet. 

There could've been some subtle hints he never noticed, sure, or maybe this was Marano having an obsession with Yankee Candles.

Sweat dotted across his skin, the leather of his jacket practically glued itself to the back of his neck where the helmet didn't touch. It was dark - god was it dark - though it wasn't a problem thanks to the night vision capabilities of the hood. The stairwell was a tight fit. He was grateful to be out of it the moment his foot touched leveled ground. Ducking into the shadows behind a support beam, Jason paused before peeking around it. 

 

Sure enough, Tim was 105% right.

 

The room by itself was the same size as the foundation of Gotham Gears, but there were corridors built into the side of the walls. The frames were wood, the corridors themselves illuminated with sloppy wiring and cheap LEDs. Jason tried to envision a map that encompassed the entire block - way too big of an operation for a fledgling boss, an error of overcompensation and arrogance - and wagered that the room he currently presided in was just for storage. 

Wooden crates lined the walls, filled the empty spaces between beams and carved out a maze. He'd seen neater organization from a preschooler. The sweet aroma came from the opposite end where the floor had a mixed dusting of cream-white powder and gray grime. Where he was, the smell of pungent oil and skin-crawling metal made him want to grind his teeth. The vibrations through the concrete were much stronger there, threatening to turn his tensed limbs to jelly.

Still, there was no one there. No sign of security or anything of the like. Jason switched off the night-vision and moved on, keeping low to the ground and checking his corners carefully. He wasn't going to jump the gun; he was going to do this right, all in a night's work. 

 

The makeshift hall was empty too. Beyond it, however, was a much bigger room. A bigger building than what Gotham Gears was, but it seemed taller. It seemed to fit more deeply into the ground. He heard chatter, gruff voices and twisted dialects. He heard the bassy rumble of industrial machinery, could see the plumes of black smoke that filtered to the top of the ceiling before it was suctioned out by a crude circulation system. Right out what he assumed was the door of another building. 

He tried to peer to the other end, noticing the wood paneling that kept the sediment aside before it connected to a shorter, single-story room of yet _another_ basement level. It was like a loft at that point, where glass separated it from the work of the main floor. Surely there was another path to the other side of the street but Jason couldn't see it.

As a matter of fact, he couldn't really move. The hall was too bright - he'd be spotted immediately by the shadow he cast - and he couldn't tell if someone was in the loft or not. If there was, he'd be given away immediately. Jason needed to figure out where Marano was, where the dealer was, and how many men were waiting for him. What they were armed with.

A stakeout wouldn't have helped in the slightest; it was all underground, with no way to monitor what was going from the surface. Since he was on his own, Jason figured there was nothing else he could've done _except_ enter the hive. If Tim was here, maybe they could've instead continued to monitor Marano's text messages. Too late for the 'what if' scenarios. Too late to head back.

 

The thought was only cemented when he heard a door shut and a stampede of feet slapping against the stairs behind him.

 

"Aw hell..."

 

"HEY!" exclaimed the man who emerged into the storage room first. He pointed a sausage finger in Jason's direction, clearly the sober and well-rested leader of the small pack behind him. "What're you doin' here?!"

 

_**BAM** _

 

A single shot from under his arm took out the Michelin man's right love handle. Blood splattered the floor, he fell backward into the thugs gathered like bowling pins at his back. Shouts of confusion from the room ahead of him said he needed to get the upper hand. _Now_.

 

Jason sprung into action, hopping down the makeshift wooden steps at the mouth of the corridor two at a time. He didn't see faces he recognized. He didn't register the machinery as anything important - it wasn't - and didn't pay any mind to the hall that likely crossed under the street. Someone's figure came to the window of the loft but he didn't see who. All he really cared about was the fact that these guys had shotguns and automatic assault rifles. The shiny red helmet didn't startle them as much as he wished it did. 

As soon as his feet touched concrete he was overrun by thugs thinking they stood a chance. They swung pipes, crowbars, anything they could get their hands on, and he outmaneuvered them like a ballroom dancer. 

One swung a pipe for his head and he ducked, listening to the satisfying _clunk_ of contact with some unsuspecting soul. Poor bastard. Jason lunged up to slam the top of his helmet into the man's nose, shattering the bone. He reeled an arm back and wrestled another rusted pipe from someone's hands. He threw it like it was a damn baseball; full force, full crank of his shoulder, whistling through the air until it utterly brained another person.

They didn't seem to stop - like they thought they could win against him with blunt instruments - and no one was firing right away, too courteous of their work colleagues to try firing into the din. Fine by him. 

 

Jason didn't want these guys dead. 

They were lackeys, a means to an end that didn't understand what they were contributing to. He settled for blasting out their shoulders, cracking ribs with well-placed strikes, kicking out knees and hips, breaking bones. But not killing. The concentration of thugs decreased enough for him to do more than just twirl out of the way. Now, he could fling people into the walls, slam faces into beams to knock them out. At the same time, that meant people could start taking shots at him. Which, admittedly, was a little harder to deal with.

Diving behind a pillar, he felt the concrete chip away loosely under heavy fire. On the right, more men were emerging from their musty dens. No one carried anything less than a shotgun; they seemed to learn their lesson over the whole blunt weapon thing. Someone tried to take him from the left at point blank with a shotgun. In retaliation, Jason kicked upward, knocking the barrel away from him and for the ceiling. He took them by the front of their shirt before spinning to put them between him and the shooters, shoving the human shield away when he realized some of the shots were going through; he could feel it against the armor against his shins, could feel the slowed momentum of bullets chipping away at his breastplate.

Things just weren't...peachy. There still was no sign of Marano or the dealer.  
He was getting sore. He was getting tired.

Not tired enough to actually slow him down - he'd dealt with more from an Arkham breakout - but there were a lot more than he was expecting. And expectations were bad to have on the field. They ruined your perception of the situation, clouded your view of the bigger picture. 

Tucked behind the same pillar as before, he took aim for the faulty electrical work of the busy corridor. It took one shot to split the wires and crack open the LEDs, one to start a spark. The wood paneling ignited, cutting down the amount of reinforcements that tried to overrun his one-man army. This helped, physically, but these bastards were persistent.  
The support beam could only take so much before it became as helpful as a toothpick.

He dove out into the open, firing as he came out of the roll and took out two of the riflemen that had been trying to get a better vantage point with a single shot from each of his firearms. His precision certainly scared some of the thugs, the ones who lost their spine lowering their guns in fear. This, Jason wagered, wasn't at all what they signed up for. He fired a few more rounds into their ranks. He attempted a final headcount before kicking loose a gaggle of smoke pellets that erupted on impact with the blood smeared and bullet-carved ground.

 

Jason vaulted over the conveyor belt of the machine - there were certainly more within the network, as just one couldn't crank out as big of a profit as Marano was expecting - and tucked out of sight. He took the confusion, the distraction and the cover all for a gamble. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Jason smashed his finger against the dial button of the most recent number. The dial tone was loud in the confines of his helmet, louder than the shouts and random gunfire around him.

' _Can't believe I'm doing this..._ ' 

Yes, he could. 

The longer it rang, the more panicked he became. "C'mon, Timbers... Come on, come on...."

 

There was a click. The dial tone stopped. He could've sworn he heard breathing that didn't match his own, clear as day over the chaotic thundering of unorganized gunfire.  
It'd have to do.

 

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

He ended the call.

 

There was a clink of metal knocking against metal. Jason turned his head partially and felt only dread in his stomach at the sight of a _grenade_ getting caught against the frame of the machine. He tried to dive out of the way but he wasn't fast enough.

 

_**Ka-BOOM** _

 

Jason's body is weightless for a moment.

Only a moment.

 

In the next, he's groaning in pain, rolling on his back as he tried to sort himself out. His helmet was offline for a few seconds - he couldn't see, but could hear the fire crackling and the creak of scaffolding, and the pained cries of men who had been caught in the blast zone - and when the world came blinking back into focus, Jason saw two of everything. Two chunks missing in the wall. Two bits of paneling split next to him. Two shreds of gears stuck in two of his four legs— What?

No, it was just one, and it hurt like hell where it fit between the kneecap and the armor on his shin. He was bleeding from a head injury as well, which certainly explained why there was a wetness filling his eyes. Breathing hurt - god, breathing hurt - so it was safe to assume that he got hit with something as well. Was it the machine when it broke apart like a sandcastle or was it the blast?

The blast had been a big one... Likely the combination of the gunpowder and the machine itself. Or there had been more than one grenade in the mix.

He really didn't have a stillness in his head to allow himself the analysis. 

 

He had to get up.

 

How long had he been down?

 

"And _that's_ how you do it, boys!" shrieked a voice. Jason's body went rigid. "Just a workplace hazard. Deal with this one properly and we don't have to worry about the rest!" The tone matched the target he had been the most worried about. He clearly had the makings of a mad man; and mad men were on the top of Jason's shit list.

The smoke was thick. One of his guns wasn't that far away. Rolling onto his knees, he scooped up the firearm and took aim through the shadows, using the flames swallowing the basement as a means of making out forms. Multiple people were standing - he could see the lumbering figures, the sharp straight edges of guns - so Jason made a calculated decision. He fired at the one that stood the straightest, the one who stood the tallest.

They screamed in pain, staggering back and out of his line of sight, demanding that someone just "Kill him already!" But Jason was ready. At least he thought he was. 

 

He fired a second round at the silhouettes. He tried to fire a third but the gun jammed in his hands. Jason attempted to discharge the magazine, only to find that the clip itself was stuck; likely bent from the blast. The shadows limped closer until he could see the ash on cheeks and the loopy, dizzied grin of a concussed man thinking he finally had the upper hand. Jason risked a glance at the floor, he risked a moment of hesitation to find his other firearm. 

It was nowhere in sight. Snapping his eyes back up, he stared down the barrel of a shaky rifle. He'd have to be quick, quicker than the trigger happy delusion of his executioner. His shoulder was sore and raw, the muscle pulled from his being thrown aside like a ragdoll. It'd have to wait. There were still thugs to deal with, still a mad man missing a decorative bullet between the eyes. Jason tensed on his back ankle, hand loose by his thigh where a knife was sheathed.

The rifle clattered sloppily as it lifted and took aim.

  


In the blink of an eye, time slowed. Jason felt his body go slack and fell back onto his heels as the rifle was knocked aside. Bullets sprayed, flashes of light illuminated the deepest parts of the smoke. Had it not been for the bright, blistering red, he would've been fooled by the deep furrow of the cowl, suggesting a much colder rage, that his savior was someone else. Still, he allowed the surprise to get the better of him, the moment of stillness doing wonders for the tension in his body that kept him from recovering.

Tim was a blur, a streak of black, red, and silver from his staff that parted the goons like Moses and the Red Sea. He divided them, forced them to back down. They formed a wide circle around him but were disoriented, slow. They were used to Jason's power. They just couldn't anticipate the flurry of speed and agility in the smaller vigilante. 

This back and forth game of incapacitating was fun and all, a real treat to watch, but soon Tim would be overrun. Under the veil of smoke - was it getting heavier or lighter? - the muzzle flashes of guns were all it took to get Jason back onto his feet. He couldn't see the younger anymore by the time he joined the fray. His night-vision didn't help under the ash, didn't pick out the faster moving body among the slower thugs. 

 

Jason managed to trip over at least two guys that were knocked out completely before he was guided by the gunfire. It zipped past him on the right, either taking aim at something real or just following a streak of paranoia. When he saw Tim crouched on the other side of the spray, he decided it was the paranoia. Tim wasn't looking at him; he barely had his head up at all, arm braced with his staff at the small of his back for balance. 

Then he perked up, peering into the smoke and suddenly flipping up into the air. Jason didn't see anything at first, not until Tim landed back in the smoke, knocking another man out into the open with well-placed rapid thrusts against the torso.

"C'mon already!" shrieked the dealer somewhere in the smoke. His voice didn't carry the same vibrato it use to, weakened from blood loss yet still hysterical enough to make Jason rabid.

 

He kicked a discarded rifle up into his grasp before firing into the smoke. He saw Tim flinch back into view with surprise, much closer to him than when the whole thing kicked off, and honestly the sight of him made Jason gape in disbelief. The teen had a split wound on the shoulder - Jason saw blood glisten under the flashes from the rifle - and what looked like a bullet wound in his abdomen. Both looked bad. Though, considering the amount of firepower they were up against? The fewer the better. Jason didn't want to see what the exit hole looked like for the latter.

Another thing he noticed was that Tim didn't look cool or collected anymore. He looked panicked, close to delirium, fidgety. Jason stopped firing blindly and found his voice for a moment. "Red?"

All he heard in response was a quiet mumble directed at someone else entirely, "Nightwing - what have you learned?" 

Tim leapt back into action at the sound of scuffling and Jason followed close behind. He had too many questions, not enough time to ask them.

 

The staff's end was smacked down against the broken concrete and Tim lunged up with the motion, taking down an unharmed fool that Jason just simply didn't see coming with a precise kick to the cranium. He staggered on landing - expected - but kept going. A curse in the dissipating smoke directed both ravens towards the main target - the main baddie. Jason just so happened to see his second handgun on the ground nearby after it was tossed to kingdom come by the blast, so _obviously_ he stooped to grab it, rising just in time to see Tim among the ashes and flames.

He had a concentrated scowl on, making the cowl tight over his features. He held what Jason recognized to be the dealer at arm's length by the front of his long coat. The man looked just as psycho as the outlaw had been imagining; pointy chin, long face, wide mouth with dried saliva at the corners, hollow eyes that didn't even glint under firelight. His skin looked tight and pale, almost milky white, leathery against the bones. He was smiling - he was fuckin' _grinning_ in Tim's hold - and only started to put up a fight when Jason finally approached.

 

Twisted and creepy he may have been, he was also...somehow, he was tactical. He knew what he was doing. That only made Jason even more unnerved. He reached out and grabbed at Tim's waist - specifically where the bullet hole was, clawing at the injury in his left lumbar like a feral cat. Tim couldn't help crying out, his legs going limp under him and his grip disappearing. The dealer tried to crawl away from the two but Jason was ready. Taking the butt of the assault rifle still in his possession, he slammed it directly into the back of the man's head, knocking him onto his side. 

The dealer sputtered in shock, eyes rolling back in his head for a moment. And then Tim was there again, arm wrapping over the front of the man's throat and legs locking across his stomach. He kept him in a tight hold from behind, tightening even more until the dealer gave in by way of wild smacks against Tim's shin. The vigilante wasn't saying anything. It seemed like he was leaving the interrogation and handling of the situation to Jason.

But Jason didn't need to interrogate him; he had already made up his mind on the matter.

 

At first. 

 

Tim grunted, tilting his head back partially to stare at Jason. "Don't you—" He gasped when the dealer tried to thrash in his submissive hold. "Don't you have a system in that helmet of yours that can do face ID?"

 

"What? What does it matter?"

 

"It doesn't match anything in the database, does it?"

 

Not a question. A demand.

 

Jason's helmet certainly had the capacity to ID criminals using their face, but it didn't work at the same magnitude as he imagined Tim's did. So, why was he asking?

Still, he conceded and checked, even though it was likely causing Tim a lot of pain to keep the wriggling dealer pressed so closely against his own open wounds. It took thirty seconds to run through the whole system. Admittedly, Jason was expecting something. _Anything_. Some lowlife in GCPD's archives or university records on a professor that lost his marbles. 

But there was nothing.

 

"He's not coming up," Jason relayed.

That prompted Tim to tighten his grip, the hand of his bracing arm curling against the dealer's features, like he was feeling each detail. Or punishing the poor bastard. He spoke through his teeth, "What's your angle?"

 

"Wouldn't you like to know~" the dealer sang.

 

"Your operation is done for, your men are done for. Marano will have the biggest lawsuit on his hands that no wealth can omit. You've got nothing to gain, so what the hell is your _angle_?!"

 

No, Jason wasn't going to let himself be kept in the dark much longer. He'd get answers from both of them. Checking the magazine of his remaining handgun, he aimed its sights on the center of the dealer's forehead. Someone swallowed loudly. "Red Robin," Jason tried, "what's going on?"

 

"Someone in his entourage kidnapped a little girl."

 

" _What_?!"

 

And the dealer laughed again, confessing his sins with the sound alone. " _My_ entourage!" he repeated, positively gushing with glee. "You're sorely mistaken, Robin. I'm only a tool for the boss. I'm only an _extension_ of his will, shaped in his image, wanting nothing more than to satisfy his need!" His hands moved away from Tim's arms, instead fumbling with the melted buttons on his shirt until he ripped it open haphazardly. 

Jason couldn't believe his eyes at the sight of how utterly stacked the man was. A long blade was removed from a strap around his chest, its tip directed back towards his own milky flesh. It was just long enough that... 

It's reach would be just enough to..!

 

He cocked the gun. Tim ducked his head to the side.

 

_**BAM** _

 

The dealer's hand fell limply to the side and a permanent smile remained etched across his face. The blade was flat against his chest, completely clean except for the blood coursing down the handle from its wielder's grip. 

Tim let out a shaky breath.

Dropping to a knee, Jason grabbed the dealer's body and threw it off the younger male, letting it lull sloppily on its side. He kept his gaze down for a moment, inspecting the oozing wound that only seemed to have split further from all of the strain Tim put it through. Careful with his touch, Jason prodded the space around it, earning a hiss in return and a sudden grip on his shoulder. "Easy there, Red," he cooed, "I'm just checking it out."

 

"D-don't... Don't touch me..."

 

"I'm just tryin' to be nice."

 

"Not that...!" Tim steeled his grip and used the outlaw like a wall, fighting every desire to stay down. 

 

Jason's arms came up in anticipation, ready to catch the boy if he started to teeter. He was breathing heavily, his skin clammy and slick with sweat. The shoulder wound wasn't too terrible upon closer inspection, but the shot had been sloppy, even a little erratic. The abdomen was where Jason actually held most of his reservations. Reaching around Tim's back, he prodded tenderly, even sighing in relief when he felt his fingers slip against the lip of the exit wound. Tim's spine arched away from the contact with a sharp gasp. Jason frowned softly. "I know you don't want me bein' nice—"

 

"I said, that's not it...!" Tim interrupted. He finally broke apart from the elder, staggering against the battered ground as he tried to stand. Immediately, a hand was clapping over the wound in his abdomen. "That's not... That's not my issue here... It's not the time to be standing around." Jason watched, almost in horror, as Tim slid his utility belt higher up on his waist, tightening it around the back as if attempting to _secure_ the injury and keep from making it worse. Like he planned on charging through the night without a touch of first aid. "Nightwing and Oracle... They're tracking down the man that took the girl," he huffed, "and I need to be there.. Now. I can't be worrying about some little bullet wound when anything could happen to her."

Jason rose with him, tucking his gun back into its holster. "Drugs McKenzie here basically just confirmed that he's part of this kidnapping, right?"

 

"Yeah..?"

 

"Then I'm comin' with you."

 

Yes, he saw the shock on Tim's face.

 

No, he couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. 

 

Dick wasn't someone he wanted to see so soon after blowing a man's brains out barely _two inches_ from his precious brother's own head. He didn't want to be antagonized or targeted for his methods. God knows he didn't have the patience for it after that disaster of a mission. Still, it was just a little girl. It was associated with his drug case in the same way Tim's target case had been. 

It was all the same. 

He figured Dick and Barbara, on their own, could handle it just fine. But Tim wasn't going to take no for an answer, and Tim, even in a beaten, broken state, was a valuable asset. 

 

Plus if Tim showed up all bloody, Jason would never get to live in peace ever again. 

His case, his responsibility. 

 

"If this guy is part of a two-for-one deal that thought it'd be funny to take a little girl," Jason explained, "then that's on me too." Tim opened his mouth to argue but the outlaw wasn't having any of that, supplying, "No, I'm not gonna kill the kidnapper. Not in front of Nightwing and his tights, or that girl. Can't confirm he'll be alive tomorrow, but, y'know."

 

When the teen nodded, that was the end of that. He straightened his posture and stalked off to retrieve his staff from among the rubble. "Oracle, can you connect Hood to our channel?"

 

"Already on it," Barbara said in Jason's ear. "Welcome to the party, Red Hood."

 

Somewhere far away, he heard what was undoubtedly Dick's disbelieving - maybe even disapproving - gasp. He chose to ignore it, purely out of spite. Jason smirked behind his helmet. "Musta lost my invite. Anyone want to fill me in?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One case down, another to go, Dick isn't too sure about having Jason along for the ride. But this isn't about him; this is about finding the girl.
> 
> He can worry about it later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing has appeared to be much more flat than I ever thought. The narrative is reactive, hardly descriptive enough of internal thoughts or anything of the like. I'm hoping to change that.  
> The semester is starting soon and I'm transferring to uni as a junior. I'll likely be busy, but I'll do my best to find some kind of consistency
> 
> Additionally, I apologize in advance for the weird interactions between Dick and Jason. I had something I wanted to do with it but it just got awkward and might be a little out of character. Sorry. I really can't fix it; believe me, I've tried. I'm also sorry for how awkward this whole thing is?? I'm not super proud of it.

Tim would understand. He always did, and then he found an alternative within the same hour. When Dick would tell him that they tracked down the wrong car, he'd say that it happens. He'd want to know what they did in the meantime. 

  


Yes... In the meantime, Barbara let herself worry over the fact that the face of Tim's quarry didn't come up in any database, as well as the location of all vehicles matching an over generalized description. Dick, meanwhile, sprung across the Gotham skyline, twisting like a newspaper in the breeze. Dipping in and out of sight, sparing friendly waves to the civilian that stopped to point. He also worried _heavily_ over the fact that Tim muted his end of the comms ever since he left for Jason's position.

There were no more explosions, which was good, and eventually Barbara keyed him in on what GCPD was up to; responding to an excessive amount of calls regarding lots of gunfire in the area. Guns were Jason's thing, so he accepted it at face value. 

Eventually the line reopened.

 

"Nightwing - what have you learned?" Tim's voice sounded labored. He must be busy.

 

Dick responded, "Nothing. I'm tracking down every car that's stopped, searching for signs of a struggle. Our supposed lead was a dead end. Your guy doesn't have a match. We're still working."

 

The breathing cut off. There was only silence.

 

Dick frowned, scratching the back of his ear where the earpiece was situated. "Muted?"

 

"Muted," confirmed Barbara.

 

About ten minutes later the line was active. "Oracle, can you connect Hood to our channel?"

 

Dick gasped, nearly choking on his tongue in the process. 

 

"Already on it. Welcome to the party, Red Hood."

 

"Musta lost my invite," came the gruff, sharply cutting voice that belonged to no one other than Jason Todd. "Anyone want to fill me in?"

 

"Later," Barbara answered. "Reconvene on Nightwing's position."

 

"You got it, boss."

  


\+ +

  


Dick waited twenty whole minutes for Jason and Tim to show up. He wasn't that far from where the explosion triggered; it shouldn't have taken them as long as it had. He asked on multiple occasions where Tim was, Barbara answering each time up until the last four. She kept saying that it was slow going, that he was likely injured but okay. Why else would he still be coming?

 

Why wouldn't he? Tim was...different. A different breed of bird. Dick knew it. Barbara knew it. They just never talked about it.

Eventually, his attention was completely captured by the clink of a hook latching onto the leg of a water tower - only one, though. Springing from his cross-legged position on the ground, Dick waited eagerly to see the spring of color that was Tim. 

 

The blocky red Batman insignia caught his eye instead. Then it was the helmet. _Then_ it was the red and yellow of Red Robin, held up by little more than the scruff of his cape. His head lolled to the side, his eyes squinted through a haze. His grip across Jason's shoulders was definitely there, maybe even steady, but he looked to be having a hell of a time using his own two legs. 

Reason said that he was injured because of the mission he abruptly went off to do. Dick said it was because of Jason.  
He didn't like being suspicious of his successor, his brother, but Jason... He had a history. One that _required_ a cautious eye.

 

Dick stomped forward and pulled Tim away from the outlaw, scowling heavily under his mask. He couldn't see Jason's expression but, judging by the way he tossed his weight to one side, it was pretty safe to assume he was rolling his eyes. The words tumbled freely from his mouth. "What'd you do?" harshly demanded Dick. "It was only drug case, right?"

 

"C'mon, Big Wing. Be more specific."

 

"What'd you do to _him_?"

 

" _Nothing_."

 

They were nearly nose to nose - err, nose to helmet - growling in the base of their throats. Deep down, Dick didn't want to mean any of his hostilities, not really. Yet he couldn't just forget all the times Jason stabbed them in the back or turned on them or hurt them. It was a very dark burn on his "golden boy" display but Dick didn't easily forgive something like that; especially not when there were so many relapses in judgment and sudden contradictions to what he wanted to believe. Not when it should've been avoided.

Maybe Jason was more cooperative now - that was _good_ \- and maybe Dick wanted nothing more than to watch a movie with his little brother. Maybe he wanted to be utterly stupid together. Maybe he wanted Little Wing back in his life. Maybe he was being too harsh, trained to only hold suspicions against someone who knew B's rule, who was _taught_ under it and should've known better. Maybe it was part of a cruel cycle. Maybe Dick ought to have faith.

  


He simply couldn't be confident that it wouldn't spin back and bite him again. 

He couldn't hold the same trust in Jason anymore. Jason didn't even seem to want it; he certainly didn't try to be friendly.

 

A hand suddenly shoved at the underside of the eldest's jaw, keeping it shut in both surprise and by sheer force, moments before he spat out another accusation. His wide eyes flickered down to Tim as he gave a small noise of confusion. Of resistance. Tim's head lifted in return. "Hood didn't do anything..." he huffed. "They had a lot...of firepower... I was being reckless. It's on me." He stood straighter. He pulled away from Dick, his hands kept limp at his side - and not at the utility belt painted red - and found a stillness that really shouldn't have been natural. Tim said, "His target also had an association with _my_ target. We can at least assume now that they're unpredictable. Defiant—"

 

"Psycho," contributed Jason, arms folded over his chest.

 

And Tim agreed. "Psycho. Definitely." A quick inhale of breath. The teen was powering through the blood loss and the pain. "He made it sound like a cult, but I can't be sure that there's more than the two of them. Once we detain the second one - likely the boss - we'll be able to keep tabs on similar activity."

 

Dick liked the way Tim spoke, all business-proper and calm situational breakdowns. It was like being spoon-fed the logistics in a _usually_ comprehensible way. It's clear, right in your face as opposed to vague. Made everything seem just that little bit simpler. Still, he didn't move past the specifics of the "detain" part. He couldn't stop his head from turning, from locking onto Jason who stood as far away as he was able. "And what happened to the first one?" Dick asked. 

 

"Too many thugs with too little experience," Tim responded easily, pulling his attention away. "A lucky shot. We got our information just before a downed man tried to take us out."

 

"Huh. Makes sense."  
And it did. Hearing it from Tim's mouth, anyways.

 

Barbara proceeded to explain the known details of the hostage situation to Jason. Using her voice as a sort of ambient background noise over the bustle of the streets, Dick had to force Tim to sit down. The younger carried a needle and thread in one of his pouches, seemingly untouched, barely unraveled, which he readied for a little impromptu stitching. He pushed back the flayed bits of suit with his index and his middle finger, lips pulled tight in a thoughtful frown.

It didn't look like a handgun - Jason wasn't the culprit, even though Tim already said he wasn't - but it looked like it had been lengthened beyond just a simple bullet wound. Dick gingerly prodded the tip of the needle against the soft flesh, giving a nonverbal cue that he was going to start so he didn't catch a fatigued Tim by surprise. There was resistance in the skin - there always was. The careful, fluid tugs of thread, the ins and out of the needle gliding like a hot knife in butter once the motion became routine. It didn't take much. In little time at all, he was having Tim turn his back to him. 

Somewhere in the distance, he heard Jason asking questions. They were good questions too. He appeared...invested in the mission, despite only picking it up not even a half hour ago. Which shouldn't have surprised Dick; for all his grump and aggression, Jason had a soft spot for kids. Always had.

 

Tugging the thread a bit to harshly, Dick offered hurried words of apology to his patient. "Sorry! Sorry, I was distracted!"

 

"Don't be distracted. For the love of god, you might sew my suit to the skin."

 

The eldest chuckled and rubbed his thumb against Tim's exposed, scarred flesh. "You're sounding better, though I still think you should take it easy."

 

"I don't do easy."

 

"You don't do _vacations_."

 

"One and the same."

 

Dick shook his head before breaking the line of thread, leaning his brother back carefully so he could inspect the shoulder wound; wider, would require more time. It appeared to have stopped bleeding but he didn't want to take too many chances. Not when things remained unpredictable. Tim ended up shrugging him off before he could make the executive decision, climbing up to his feet with a slight sway. He extended his hand out for Dick to take. "But, seriously," he was saying, "this is my responsibility. If I had only been better about how I handled it, _smarter_ , then there's a pretty high chance that this never would've happened in the first place."

 

"You don't know that," argued Dick, accepting the help until they were both standing tall, peering past the domino and the cowl that separated them with a light smile. "Even with all the care in the world, things still happen, right? Don't beat yourself up over it. We caught on early."

Tim didn't answer, likely because he didn't believe what Dick was telling him. But it was still true; things happen outside of their control all the time! They do their best to control it, to wrangle it in so that no one gets hurt, and yet it's inevitable. He only wished it had been something a little easier - for Elsa's sake.

 

Barbara cleared her throat. "Look alive," their mighty Oracle ordered. "Found a vehicle matching our description parked part way onto a curb off Dillon and Schwartz. Doors are open, looks like it had been abandoned pretty quickly." It wasn't too far from where Dick started the search. Was it possible that he missed it in his haste? 

 

 

**.**

 

Dillon was where they started. From there, they found scuff marks tracking out from behind the alley. It was pretty uncommon for anyone to park their cars back behind the buildings unless it was for a few minutes, but it sometimes happened. Jason suggested - standing far against the wall - that they could've been months old. Tim dragged his hand over the burn and pinched between his fingers a bit of granulated rubber just as Barbara supplied that video surveillance from the liquor store across the street had footage of a beaten down, white Ford truck barreling into the road - forty-five minutes prior.

 

They followed it north to the Schwartz bypass. Abandoned on the riverbank was none other than the truck in question, seemingly undamaged and left to collect rust. The only additional clues they found suggesting that this wasn't the stopping point was an additional set of tracks imbedded in the muck underneath the bridge itself. It looped around the base and met the road again, where mud streaked toward the lanes heading north. Obviously it dried out by the halfway point so there wasn't much else they could go off of until they were on the other side; it was safe to assume that their culprit didn't veer from the roundabout, towards Arkham. 

No one wanted to even entertain the idea unless it was the only possible outcome.

Which it wasn't. Dick found a dark blue Nissan tucked away behind a dumpster in Burnley's northeastern side, dried mud cracked along the fenders of the car. He prowled through the interior in search of something, _anything_ left behind that would point them in the right direction. They couldn't just rely on sheer chance to get them there. If they did, then they'd disgraced Batman and left a girl to fend for herself longer than necessary. They needed to cut the right corners.

He found a bedazzled Skecher tucked under the driver's seat. Holding it up, he showed it to both Tim and Jason through the window. They didn't look at him. 

Well, Jason did, and then he just shook his head in irritation. Tim made no indication that he noticed.

 

As a matter of fact, Tim barely lifted his head at all, keeping both arms crossed over his chest. His digits tapped, scratched, pressed against his gauntlet, against his forearm, bicep, whatever they could touch. Dick would've figured it had to do with his exhaustion, only the younger was frowning. When he started to chew at his bottom lip it became clear; he was _thinking_. 

Barbara was busy siphoning for some kind of direction through CCTV in the area - most of which barely had power running through them at all so she had to make do with what was available - so they could afford the time to talk. To brainstorm as a group. When Dick came climbing out of the car, whatever distance Jason had gradually crossed to come closer was immediately brought back. He kept well out of reach.

' _Whatever_.'

Ignoring the other, Dick instead focused on the youngest of them. He placed a hand on Tim's uninjured shoulder, and he still flinched, before blinking up at him. "Got something, Red?" Dick asked with a light tone.

He received a frown at first. Less thoughtful, more perturbed. Eventually Tim lowered his head again, saying, "It's a straight line. Why is it a straight line?"

 

Dick wanted to say that their path _hadn't_ been all that straight, that it had been slightly skewed. 

 

"If he was smart," Tim went on, "he wouldn't want there to be an obvious direction. He wouldn't want it to be linear. He wouldn't want it to be _easy_."

 

Across the way, Jason scoffed. "We have to hunt down a bunch of cars scattered across the northern half of Gotham like they're Hot Wheels. You think that's 'linear'?"

 

"Why not use a car model that's plentiful and easy to get? Why not just do that and make it so that whoever is coming after you _can't_ pick apart your path?"

 

"Maybe you're giving him too much credit," Dick offered, tightening his grip as if that would help Tim see the flaws in his analysis. 

He was thinking a million steps ahead, farther than a lowly kidnapper could ever hope to. He behaved as if the kidnapper had more than five collective brain cells. Brain cells that should've advised against nabbing some young girl so close to Crime Alley where the Red Hood presided, and literally off the doorsteps of a complex where Red Robin had recently incapacitated armed assailants; he wasn't smart in any sense of the word.

He would be holding her for a ransom or something like that. He'd expect Gotham officers at his door, not costumed vigilantes. This was low level crime. This was the _norm_. Tim treated it like it was much bigger than that. And it didn't make a lick of sense.

 

Jason sighed. "Spandex is right," he said.

 

"Hey—!"

 

"He might be the boss of the other dude, he might have instilled loyalty from someone who was a total nut job, but that doesn't mean his methods are all that deep. You're just desensitized by all the other tough shit we do."

 

Tim shook his head, shook Dick off his shoulder, basically shook both comments off like they didn't change a thing. They did. He stalked towards the street, muttering to himself about how that wasn't the point, how it was _too_ easy.  
He put too much emphasis on the ease factor.

 

Dick pouted and took a few steps over to Jason, the man going rigid in defense. "You didn't have to put it like that," he scolded.

  


"Are you fuckin' kidding me? Put it like what!?"

 

"Saying he was desensitized. Being so rude about it."

 

He was certain that the helmet contorted with Jason's buried expression; he could see the anger, annoyance, all of it on the scuffed red surface. 

 

"I'm not being rude," Jason snapped, "I'm being blunt. Don't pretend it's not true, 'Wing. We're all used to worse shit than this and this is his first real case in a while. He expects there to be some big convoluted secret involved when it's just some asswipe in cahoots with another asswipe. He's not a little kid; he can take a little honesty."

 

"That's not the point. You never think about what you say, Hood. You made it sound like you were attacking him!"

  


"Like you're doing right now?"

 

"I'm not—"

 

"But you are. You're babying the crap out of Sherlock over there and nitpicking every fucking thing I say. I've never been known for speaking eloquently, or carefully, or whatever the hell and you know it. I'm not changin'." Jason finally moved, throwing up one arm to gesture towards the street where Tim had disappeared. " _He_ knows I'm not attacking him. Believe me, it'd be pretty obvious if I was."

 

Dick snarled, hackles practically raising in aggression. "Was that a threat?!"

 

"A thr— You _want_ it to be a threat? Try me."

 

On one hand, this was baseless, pointless. On the other hand, it ignited a sharp bite in his chest. Before he could act on either impulse, something curved and stiff poked into the soft underside of Dick's ribs, causing the man's head to snap to attention. Tim was glaring at him under the cowl, the grip on his staff tight and held unmoving against Dick's torso. "Both of you need to knock it off for like, two minutes," he snapped, clearly irritated. "I can't even hear myself think. And I sure as hell can't hear _Oracle_ over the two of you bickering like a bunch of preschoolers."

Barbara sighed over the comms. "Seriously... I work with children..."

 

"But that's not—!" Dick tried to explain himself, but a sharp jab from the staff had him biting his tongue. 

 

"If you're done," started the redhead, "I think I've finished tracking down the girl. They're at the Botanical Gardens. Gate's wide open, car ditched. No signs of anyone having left the premises so it's safe to assume she's still inside. So is he."

Which meant they had to get a move on. Tim collapsed his staff back down to an easy to carry size, tucking it away and replacing it with his grapple. He hardly spared either of his predecessors a glance before he was zipping off the ground. Jason moved just as quickly after him.

  


For a moment, Dick had sympathy for the outlaw; all things said and done, yeah, Dick knew he wasn't being fair. Deep down. Beneath all of the thoughts, feelings, and harsh truth coursing through his skull. He wasn't giving Jason the benefit of the doubt, the chance to be part of the team. This isn't how he wanted their first interaction in months to go, truly - though it was he who brought the outlaw to the point of aggression, who _misconstrued_ the words because he knew this was how their dynamic _needed_ to be - and now it reached the point of boiling over.

A small voice in the back of his mind - _his own_ \- said Dick ought to apologize. He worried, like all big brothers did, about the safety of the younger among them, and he was....concerned, about how Tim was seemingly the worst off of the two despite Jason being involved in the earlier fight longer. Concerned by how close Tim was getting to Jason and how little he seemed to care about the underlying threat, because Jason himself was a threat. _Especially_ to him.

Again, there was that history. A history he couldn't just brush off.

Jason had been a big help to the family before, when crisis arose and no one could do anything on their own, or while at odds with each other. He served as glue, as a bitterly refreshing reminder of things that have changed - for better AND for worse. He called himself an outlaw, but there were times where Dick had to admit that he was more of a hero than any of them.

So, maybe... Maybe this was all a mistake, the hostilities and aggression of territorial beasts baring their fangs. Perhaps Dick could ignore the shadow in his head, the gruff voice of Bruce-like reasoning that said Jason couldn't be redeemed at the end of the day. Not for long, though, because B was always right.

 

**.**

 

They tried to be stealthy. They tried to silently coordinate amongst themselves; locate both targets, assess any outside dangers, move fast. But that didn't work for a multitude of reasons. One of which being that Jason had...other plans. He broke away from the collective the minute his feet touched solid ground, slinking around to the east side of the gardens through the hedges and thick yard, fading into the shadows despite the shiny beacon of a helmet. 

Dick made gestures with his hands, motions and signs with his fingers, all of which fell upon a very blank expression when he tried to guide Tim. He frowned. "Come on, Red Robin," he pleaded in a soft voice. "We're almost done and you can go home after this is done, but for now just work with me here."

 

A slow nod in response. "Right... Right, sorry."

 

"Good. Okay, you scope out from above the greenhouse and I'll creep in through the front." He gave up on the signals. Tim didn't seem to be completely there at the moment, burdened by exhaustion from his previous ordeal. Probably. That was okay - just another reason why coordinating wasn't going all that smoothly.

 

"Got it."

 

They split off and operated in silence. Barbara was silent in his ear, there was no sign of Jason even after Dick had slipped past an array of trees that grew in the yard surrounding the large greenhouse. He saw no clear sign of anyone else being in the area, which was rather strange once he thought about it. It was still early by just about all standards. At the very least, there should've been kids doing coke behind the hedges or someone graffitiing the glass panes, but there wasn't a soul. 

Passing through the large double doors he was met by the sight of a lush landscape, dense, overgrown, and hardly cared for in months. Mother Nature didn't need the extra help, though, she did just fine on her own. Vines hung low and roots split through the soil. The air was humid, heavy in his lungs as he crept through the underbrush. Dick couldn't hear anything over the constant vibrating hum of insects. Or was it the lights? They were so dim... It made hiding easy. 

Dick paused a moment behind the thick trunk of a tree, peeking around in search of something that stuck out. Nothing. It wasn't until a solid minute of silence passed that he distinguished a sound above the rest; an outlier.

Short, choked sobs. 

 

A broken cry, "Hello...? Dad?"

 

It sent him reeling. Dick emerged from the bushes where a water feature ran past, near a pond and an artificial waterfall. A girl was sat on one of the rolling hills with her head hung low, thick vines wrapped around her body. She didn't notice him. 

 

"Red Robin, Red Hood," Dick called over the comms, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the girl. He mentioned Jason too, in case he decided he wanted to be a team player. "Any signs of the culprit?"

 

To his surprise, it was Jason who answered first. "Not a thing. Saw a Prius 'round back but nothing else worth mentioning."

 

"As far as I can tell, there's no one here," offered Tim.

 

"Oh, there's someone here, alright. I found Elsa."

 

Overhead, the slight crinkle of glass under weight echoed like a voice. A panel in the ceiling swung open and a line dropped about three yards away from Dick's current position. Ahead of him, a red helmet bobbed into view, turning as it scanned the area with a practiced stare. Slowly, unease and anticipation in their bones, the three convened on one spot. There truly was no sign of the culprit. No sign that he had been there at all aside from his victim - who still didn't seem to register that she was being surrounded.

Tim was biting his lip. Jason was cautious like an animal. It was up to Dick to call out to her, but he didn't like what he saw.

Elsa sat atop a mound of overturned dirt, the vines used like ropes and tied off in tight bows. There were plastic flowers tucked in the folds ranging from a noxious orange to an aggressively bright purple. Not so many of them that Dick was bothered by it. Most of his attention - actually, _all_ of it - was on the rectangular package in her lap, wrapped in vines, wires, and packing tape. The digital face on the front was counting down four minutes.

 _3:59_.

 _3:58_.

 _3:57_.

 

Jason said it first, low under his breath and so clearly strained. "It's a goddamn _bomb_."

 

Elsa shrieked, head whipping back and forth wildly, her eyes wide as they stared off into space. She didn't look over at Jason, nor did she acknowledge Dick or Tim on her left. In fact, when her cheek swiveled in their direction, her eyes simply saw past them with a thousand-yard stare. The cornea was bloodshot, the iris was milky and didn't touch either eyelid, the pupil was clouded.

Concussed, for one thing.

 

Dick reached out then, saying, "It's okay! Don't worry, Elsa, it's okay. We're here to help."

 

"Who- Who are you?! I just wanna go home..!" She still didn't look at him but at least her head didn't droop again.

 

"And we'll get you home. I promise we will. We're with Batman."

 

That made tears spill from her eyes. 

Jason restrained a gagging sound as he knelt in front of her, inspecting the time bomb in her lap and the connections attached to it, but the comment wasn't _for_ him. It was for Elsa. She didn't ask anymore questions. She didn't say anything at all, really.

They had three minutes and fifteen seconds to either disarm the bomb or get her as far away from it as possible.

 

Tim reached out slowly, fingers extended and reaching for the girl's shoulder. He curled his grip around the vines, making her flinch in surprise at the contact. "Elsa?" he softly called, gesturing for Dick to come closer. She craned her head in Tim's direction but her stare completely missed him. "Talk to me, what is it you see?"

 

"I- I don't... I don't see anything..."

 

"Nothing at all?"

 

"It's all dark...and fuzzy... And it hurts... It hurts a lot..."

 

Dick watched, carefully at first, then curious as Tim reached back for his hand - not taking his eyes off Elsa despite the fact that she wouldn't have noticed - and brought it to her shoulder. They traded positions, the younger separating away from her body to instead glide his hands over the knots and flowers. "Did you manage to see the person who did this to you?" asked Tim. 

The footage they saw involved the man throwing her over his shoulder. Quickly. He had a hat and a trench coat, had positioned her in a way that hid his face features from her. Who knows if he put a bag over her head once they were in the car, or if he blindfolded her, or if he blinded her before bringing her to the gardens. Dick didn't like the thought, the very implication that their culprit would go so far as to do something to Elsa's eyesight before hooking her to a _bomb_ and leaving her behind. But Tim seemed settled on the theory. "Anything you remember at all will help us make sure this doesn't happen again. It'll help Batman put him behind bars."

Elsa paused for a moment, head lulled back a bit as if dragged down by the weight of gravity. The unnatural paleness of her eyes tugged at every nerve in Dick's body, made him feel cold and empty. Eventually, she replied, "Red... The last thing I saw as he...as he left... Red hair... Lots of it."

 

Jason suddenly perked up, the clock now at a minute-thirty. "Red Robin, I need you to make sure none of these stupid flowers are connected to the bomb." There was a slight panic to his tone. A slight tightness. It made the air feel like it was vanishing from their lungs, stolen away before anyone noticed in time. Tim nodded, his careful investigation of the vines turning more thorough. He pulled through the plant and felt at the backs of the plastic flowers. 

 

"Y'know, fuzzy is better," Dick reassured Elsa, falling back on his natural instinct to comfort while he let his brothers - brother and outlaw, actually - work fast. Against the clock. Too many people and it would be crowded. Too many people and nothing would get done. He'd have to trust them. "If it hurts, then that means something is still changing. Your eyes might be healing themselves. It's probably temporary."

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tim's hands break out of the tight vines and bump against Jason's. The outlaw should've seen him coming, it had been so obvious which direction Tim had been working in, yet he nearly jumped out of skin, arms trembling ever so slightly. His fingers curled around the back of the bomb.

 

Time hit _0:45_.

 

Jason's voice was small as he said, "Talk to me.."

 

"You're clear."

 

With a hard, overestimated yank, Jason was falling backwards, bomb ripped free of the vines previously wrapped around its width. Dick just about felt his heart drop into the soles of his feet. The grip on the bomb went slack as time continued to count down, second by second, moment by moment. Jason intentionally released it from his hold and Tim was there to catch it, the surprise on his face saying it had been sheer luck. "Small blast radius!" Jason rattled, "Toss it!"

Tim's shoulder was injured. His abdomen was strained. No way could he successfully throw anything anywhere. He seemed to understand this well enough and, instead, passed it off to Dick behind him. 

Dick wasted no time. 

They had very little of it, anyways.

 

 _0:15_.

 

Small blast radius provided very little comfort, very little insight on the matter. Still, Dick relied on it just as much - even put his faith in Jason's deduction - cranking his arm back, taking those few leaping steps forward, and throwing the bomb as far as he could manage. The wires had been curled around the bomb itself, not connected to the out of place flowers like they all seemed to have assumed. It counted down way too fast for them to have done anything until _after_ they discovered it.

If Tim had been alone, arrived at the same time as they did, took the chance to scout out the perimeter and stumble across Elsa like Dick did, then it would've blown up under his hands. Elsa likely wouldn't have survived. He couldn't really trust that Tim would've either - not with the injuries he sustained earlier.

It bounced across the roots and underbrush, made a soft thud against the corner of the greenhouse. A stillness fell over the gardens, freezing each body as if they had been caught by Medusa's paralyzing stare. The water feature seemed to flow in silence.

 

Dick could've sworn he heard the final tick as the clock struck zero.

It echoed like a breath, a sound caught against ice.

  


The blast was painfully bright, hot and blistering as it ignited the dry foliage around it. Glass cracked, even screamed as loud as Elsa did when the force shot up the connecting walls. Dick followed it with his eyes. He watched it reach the top and then couldn't keep from gasping when the crack _continued_ onto the ceiling. Each broken section turned brittle, shattering with a eardrum-shaking crunch as its integrity failed.

This was all in a matter of seconds. Everyone, one way or another, wasn't prepared to book it behind safety.

Dick whipped back, looking for Elsa first and foremost, before preemptively flinging himself down to where she had been. Before he felt the cool nip of glass, he registered for a moment that she wasn't easily found; before he could feel the burn of new cuts blooming across his skin, he recognized the dirtied vines extending from underneath the Red Hood, who was hunched over heavily with his back to the open air. Now wasn't the time to be pleased. The eldest wrapped his arms securely over his head and the back of his neck, bracing for the sharp bite.

 

A shadow cast itself over Dick, heavy and resistant in a way that prevented the debris from imbedding itself in his flesh. Instead, it was slowed. Some pieces were fragile enough that they only pittered against his back like rain. Others managed to pierce through but it was only as uncomfortable as accidentally poking a staple. It could've been so much worse. Daring to bring back his head from where it was shielded under his arms, Dick was left in awe.

He saw the staff.

Then he saw the cape.

He saw his little brother with his head down, one arm out to the side with a fistful of leather brought in front of his chest and the other extended back beside him. The staff was caught on the edge of the cape, against the tension pulled by Tim's grip on the other end. It was _supported_ , held over Dick's back like an awning. 

Pride exploded in Dick's chest. He could ignore the sear of fresh cuts on his skin, could shake off the bits that stuck. Had he actually been rained on by slivers of glass, it still wouldn't have been _that_ big of a problem, really, so long as Elsa was protected and safe. But hell was it clever. It was _brilliant_. It was fast thinking in the heat of the moment, in the coils of stress. Cape or no cape, Dick honestly didn't think he would've done the same. He never would've considered it as being helpful without a certain amount of thickness. Though, he knew the Red Robin suit had always been on the more dense side; even after it was altered for the first time.

  


Jason unfolded himself first, quickly rising to his feet and giving some space to the girl. She was shaking, arms kept wrapped around the back of her head. There were some new cuts on the bottoms of her feet and around the ankle, a new red line across the side of her face and a few over her elbows, but she was unharmed. One by one, the males straightened to their full height.

Silence passed over them.

Each staring at the other.

A fire crackling somewhere far away.

 

"Oracle, make sure we've got a paramedic and the fire department on their way," Dick suddenly said, a goofy smile pulling across his face. "See if you can get Elsa's dad over here, too."

 

Elsa bit back a sob, but there was an irrefutable lightness to her face.

 

"We've got someone waiting for him."

 

It only took ten minutes for the authorities to arrive. By that point, Jason and Dick had retreated to the safety of a rooftop one block away. For some reason, Tim had insisted on being there when help arrived. It didn't make sense at first. They left just late enough that someone would spot the streak of color and recognize it as Gotham's own special breed of help. They made sure Elsa would be okay before they did anything else. So _why_ did he feel it necessary to stick around? That wasn't the typical procedure - kids being the exception, depending - but Tim refused to budge.

Which was okay. It was his case after all, one he worried over for quite a while and held himself wholly accountable for; complications included. He had been uneasy about the culprit, had been particularly bothered by Elsa's lack of sight while they waited for someone to arrive. Tim wasn't the best with kids and yet his silent presence at the girl's side seemed to help her way more than Dick's attempt at energetic distractions. Dick wanted to stay, too, until he saw Jason making his getaway. They weren't done yet.

If nothing else, Dick would wait for him. 

 

Which left just Jason and him to stand alone in the haze of Gotham's lights.

 

For some reason, the outlaw didn't leave right away. He was waiting just like Dick, not making his daring escape as Dick first suspected. Not unexpectedly, Jason didn't seem in any mood to make conversation. That was fine. 

Of course it was.

But Dick didn't lose his voice. In fact, with it, he found a lot of things he wanted to say. He started slowly, moving to sit on the ledge and letting his legs dangle limply over the street below. It was just late enough that Gotham was _finally_ getting quiet.  
Quiet for her standards.

 

"Look, Jason," said Dick, turning his head to examine the other. Just by hearing his name, Jason suddenly went on high alert, taking a few dragging steps further away. There was no ignoring the slight twitch of a hand towards his belt and the grapple there. He had to make it quick. "I was a little harsh on you."

The hand stilled.

"Tim nearly had a panic attack with the overlapping cases. He suddenly mentioned _you_ and I didn't know what to think, didn't really know what was going on, but he wanted to help both you and Elsa. I let him go. I was harsh on you," he said again, "but you can't entirely blame me, Jay. You've got a less than perfect track record, _especially_ with Tim of all people."

 

A scoff, a quick shake of the head and pivot on the heel to face the other direction with hands on hips. But Jason stopped making an effort to leave.

 

"I still... I don't know. I don't get you, I don't know if I ever will, but you did good things tonight." Dick twisted further to offer a full, nearly unguarded smile. He ignored the possibilities of the earlier case, of the case he knew nothing about. He left out, in detail, their argument. "You helped a lot and you protected Elsa. I know you were uneasy with the bomb—"

The outlaw went rigid, shoulders up and head pulled back. He clearly didn't like having attention called to....whatever that was, maybe a moment of uncertainty.

 

"—yet you still pulled through. I don't think we could've managed without you, Jason. Thank you."

 

 _Thank you_.

 

So simple, so easy to say as far as words went, but with it came a weight that removed itself from Dick's shoulders.

 

Jason didn't move right away. With the helmet, and especially since his back was to the eldest, there was no way to know for certain how it affected Jason. If it affected him at all. His hand dropped to his belt, as did his head, dipping and refusing to raise until after he _thoroughly_ inspected the mechanism and hook of the grapple. Then he lifted it into the night, still refusing to turn back around. Dick tilted his head curiously.

 

"Yeah, well..." The outlaw cleared his throat. "Don't make it a habit to come asking for help, got it?"

 

"Hehe... You got it."

 

"Good. See you around...Dick."

 

Pleased with himself, he was turning back around to face the botanical gardens as coils whined with the fast retraction of chord. He was alone for a few minutes afterwards, listening to the creak and rattle of a fire escape on the opposite side of the building as Tim made the climb up. Dick spun on his tailbone to face him, legs coming back down onto solid ground. "Welcome back," he greeted warmly. "Everything go okay?"

Tim nodded and rubbed the back of his neck through the cowl. He paused to stretch out some kinks in his muscles, wincing only once; a good sign that he wasn't doing too badly. "Her dad was a little spooked to see me."

 

"From when you got him arrested like, two weeks ago?"

 

"Yup. But he was so happy to see Elsa. He started _crying_. She wasn't gone for that long."

 

"Maybe not," Dick agreed, shrugging, "but he knew he was being targeted, and he didn't know what to expect, AND his daughter's eyesight is currently screwy; that's a lot to take in. Plus, I don't think he knew you were keeping tabs on him. Imagine what it must feel like to have your daughter be rescued by the one who put you behind bars."

 

The teen shook his head, coming closer to stand next to Dick, arms crossed over his chest. Now that he was within arm's reach, he really, really didn't look too terrible. Tired, maybe a little pale, but he wasn't bogged down by anything right now. He said, "I didn't rescue her. That was mostly you, Oracle, and Hood especially." Pausing to turn his head and survey the area, the cowl tightened thoughtfully. "Speaking of..."

 

"He left not too long ago. Said we shouldn't make coming to him a habit."

 

Dick nearly fell too far ahead when he noticed the slight twitch to Tim's features, the soft smile on his chapped lips. "What an ass," was all Tim offered.

 

Running a hand through his hair - and sprinkling loose glass bits that he failed to shake out earlier - Dick leaned closer until he was knocking shoulders with the younger. "By the way," he said, "I know you haven't been over to the manor a lot while you were sick, but we're close now. It couldn't hurt to stop by and have Alfred take a look at you."

Tim wore an expression that said he wasn't at all interested in the idea, but it was so...youthful and childish that it only made Dick laugh. "Don't be like that!" he gushed, "I promise Alfie won't put lock you up or put you on permanent bedrest. If he does, I'll help you break out. But, really, you should stop by more often since you're better. Maybe then I wouldn't have to bank on you being injured just to have you over."

Surely he must've had Tim on a lure now. It was so clear in the way he fidgeted, tapping his foot and humming a note of thought. "Listen, Nightwing, I'm not feeling up to it.." Tim tried, "Not that it wouldn't be nice, but I have some things to take care of, things to do. Final reports and all that jazz."

 

"If you _really_ want, we can stop by your apartment and get your laptop, do a stress-free run of your patrol and then loop back towards the Manor. It'd take longer, and we'd be at your apartment already, but just think about it, okay? Pretty please?" Dick bat his eyes for good measure; Tim wouldn't really be able to tell under the domino, but there was absolutely no way he _didn't_ already have an idea of which tools Dick was utilizing to get his younger brother home for the night. 

 

The response was slow, a little bothered - if not annoyed - and eventually Tim sighed. "Alright."

 

Of course Dick was giddy. With a wooping laugh, he sprung to his toes. He could only imagine Alfred's joyed expression at the sight of Tim - er…injuries aside - or how happy Cass would be that he was over. Sometimes Tim could be a real stranger. If all it took was a promise that he could get work done despite calling it an early night, that maybe he could actually be convinced into coming over, then that was totally fine. The potential was totally worth it. And, of course, if Tim didn't come over, then Dick would just be more persistent about it in the future.

If nothing else, at least they'd get to patrol together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired. I'm going on a break to figure out what'll happen next. Yes, I know the end goal and, yes, I know some of the things that happen in between, but it's lacking. 
> 
> Until the next time. Hope you enjoyed. Fingers crossed the next installment won't be as awkward


	7. This Won’t Define Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim’s back in the manor and adjusting is much harder than anticipated. Now, it seemed like he’d be able to leave whenever he so pleased but fate has a different plan in mind; Bruce, detective extraordinaire, wants to see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been working on this for two months I’m SORRY.  
> Uni is hard. Shit’s wild.
> 
> Thank you for being patient :)

Lots of things were wrong. He already knew that - had always known, really, but was too proud to admit it - and it wasn't until he woke in a panic, surrounded by an unfamiliar darkness, that it punched him in the gut.

Perhaps a list was necessary. As Tim threw aside plush covers and rolled off the side of a bed that was both two sizes too big as well as too many inches taller than he was used to, lists were just about all he could handle. Go through the basics, assess the problems, find solutions. Do _something_. Keep it stupid-simple.

What was the situation?

 

Well, for starters, his head hurt like hell. It hadn't stopped throbbing since the incident now seven weeks back, he had just gotten incredibly good at ignoring it whenever it suited him. It wasn't too different from caffeine withdrawal-pains. His eyes burned, the base of his skull ached the same way ice creaked - an echo, but the kind you only wished you could ignore. Ominous. Foreboding. Stephen King if he was a sound.

That was only one part of it. Though, admittedly, probably the biggest part.

The rest of it actually triggered Tim's sense of reason, bringing him up off the floor and curling his fists in the comfort barely hanging onto the bed itself. He suddenly remembered where he was, and promptly pulled a heavy, irritated sigh from his lungs.

 

Item two on Timothy Drake's list of things gone wrong: he had deliberately chosen to go back to Wayne Manor, with Dick of all people.

 

Sweet baby Jesus...

 

His entire existence as of late revolved around every form of avoidance and the Bat Family. Running into Cassandra had been a conscious risk. Working alongside Dick was coincidence, one that proved to be in his favor. Everyone else? Tim wagered he wasn't really prepared to face them.

Still, this preemptive visit had a purpose.

Of course it did.

 

He compared his options at the time, then reassessed them in the present moment just to be sure. Go straight home after patrol and _hope_ Dick would stay out of his hair, or visit the penthouse, get his sensory articles, and be done with his obligatory visit home? Even if Tim didn't run into anyone, at least it couldn't be said that he wasn't being social.

Knock it out of the way now, or wait to be hunted down a second time?

Have control or be surprised?

The choice was clear.

 

Tim finally gave in to his surroundings, acclimating to the sounds of what he presumed was mid-morning. It had been a while since he last slept in this room. He could map out the manor by memory, certainly, but _remembering_ the details of his own bedroom was another beast entirely.

The bed was in front of him and under his hands. Considering which side he tumbled, then it was the big window at his back, the warmth seeping through his shirt suggesting that the curtains were partially drawn; desk was on the other side near the door, an armchair sat in the far corner; bookshelves and a dresser, each of equidistance from the wall as each other; a door to the bathroom across from the foot of the bed; a nightstand _dangerously_ close to bumping against his hip.

These were all basic, unbothered characteristics in his foggy memory. Unlived for months - even well before Tim's accident - but still well taken care of, kept clean and fresh and somehow oddly comfortable by a diligent Alfred Pennyworth.

Despite the comfort his map should've brought to him, Tim still felt anxiety crawling up his throat. As far as he was concerned, he stood in a strange room in a foreign place. Map or no map - he was stuck in a corner. This no longer felt like the place he used to call home for a while. It was just living quarters that intended to collect dust over time, never to be used again.

 

Item number three on his list of things gone wrong: his balance was worse than he'd ever like to admit. In the safety of his own apartment, Tim had the unguarded luxury to move as fast and as uncoordinated as possible. If he fell too far forward or swayed to much to one side, he chocked it up to just being a mild sense of peace in his environment. Nothing more or less. He stood, now, by himself and in the comfort of an empty room. He made no effort to shift his weight or shuffle his feet.

Still, Tim found himself repeatedly having to re-anchor his center of gravity, to adjust his grip of the sheets and keep from stumbling backwards. Though his mind felt clear like crystal, it was his body alone that carried this dizziness, as if he had been spun around with his eyes closed at a kid's birthday party. If he hit the piñata, then the game would end and he could open his eyes to an upright world. He couldn't find the piñata. 

' _What the fuck—_ '

 

Tim certainly didn't _feel_ like a great detective; he should've noticed this sooner. He should've noticed _all_ of this from the very beginning instead of only just now acknowledging it. Self-conscious and worried, maybe it wasn't a big surprise that the reality of his circumstances decided to rear its ugly head into view. Tim didn't know how to explain it...

He was at a loss for words.

**~#~**

The manor was alive. He could feel it. Armed with little more than sensory sweatbands on his wrists, a thick belt, and steel-toed boots, Tim knew he wasn't truly alone.

What day was it? What time?

Who was home; who was awake and who was asleep?

Could he leave without anyone stopping him?

Nothing was guaranteed. This, at least, was expected.

His shoulder stung with his sudden knock against a doorframe, having strayed too far off his straight-facing path. Part of him, so completely engrossed in this swelling predicament, forgot about his injuries. They flushed hot under his skin, a rush of blood causing both abdomen and shoulder to throb long after he moved on.

' _Where to_...' Tim wondered. His legs carried him on autopilot for the most part, the wide manor halls just another piece of his muscle memory. The third floorboard creaked and, like a lightbulb illuminating, he knew he was passing one of the many, many sitting rooms. The door was open, the space on the right feeling much more exposed than the rest of the environment; when he loosely extended his arm, Tim’s wristband didn’t even quiver.

Sometimes Alfred left doors open so the rooms beyond could air out. Sometimes, he did it so tired vigilantes that forgot other parts of the house existed could wander in for a change of scenery. A soft clink or porcelain being delicately set against wood alerted Tim to the presence of _someone_. There was no conversation or out-of-time sounds, which meant it was just the one.

He stood still for far too long and he knew it, so Tim gingerly felt for the doorframe before leaning his back - playing the role of indifferent - before finally speaking.

"Morning, Alfred."

The old man didn’t miss a beat. "A good morning to you as well, Master Tim. I trust your sleep was restful?”

 

' _Ah. Alfred. A national treasure_.'

 

It’d be a bold faced lie to say he hadn’t missed the elder. The unproblematic, doesn’t-bother-you-yet-still-doesn’t-take-shit Alfred Pennyworth. No way he didn’t notice Tim lingering in the hallway, or the way he reached out to find something to gravitate towards. He just never mentioned it. He likely knew something was off in the first few seconds of their encounter - this was _Alfred_ \- but it could easily be summed up to a slightly damaged Timothy not knowing how to integrate back into human company.

Which, unfortunately or not, seemed to be a common occurrence; with or without the help of excuses.

Swallowing thickly, Tim rolled his shoulders. "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, it was good. What time is it?"

 

"You undoubtedly passed two clocks on your way here - were they all broken?" When Tim sputtered in an effort to cover his tail, Alfred chuckled, amused. "I’m only joking with you, Master Tim, I know no one in this house uses the clocks. It's a quarter past nine."

No pause, no click of a pocket watch, the Butler simply knew off the top of his head. Truly, a superhero in disguise. Though, his little joke had Tim rolling in the recesses of his mind.

"Pretty late," mused the teen, "so I should probably be leaving soon."

 

Suddenly, there was a presence within an arm’s reach, warm and fragrant like fancy imported mint soap. His wrists buzzed at the arrival. He tried to muffle it against his stomach by tightening the fold of his arms. Alfred places a hand on his shoulder. "Before you do, I’ll prepare some breakfast—"

 

"That’s not necessary—"

 

"—while you speak with Master Bruce."

 

The last part was spoken in a somber tone one. Tim could practically _feel_ it, the way it chilled him to the core. Maybe it wasn’t the words or tone, so much as it was the knowing implication attached. The Bruce to the Master. Tim would never outright admit to having an aversion to Bruce; specifically, being alone with him. Their relationship was fine. They were fine.

  


Yeah. Fine.

  


They hadn’t spoken to each other in months. Even before dropping off the radar, whenever they managed to be in the same room together Tim wouldn’t stand very close. Their conversations consisted solely of work and nothing else. Cold tones, occasional grunts and nods of acknowledgement. Silent stares when something went wrong.

He was...okay with that, really. Whatever warmth use to exist hasn’t made an appearance in a long time. It stung sometimes, sure, but he had long since resigned himself to the fact. All Tim needed to be was the acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises and the vigilante known as Red Robin. Tools; the rest of it served as added baggage. Again, Tim understood this, how he was designed to fill in the blanks when need be or point out the way, built to follow orders because _someone_ needed to.

Steeling his nerves, Tim nodded and slipped free of the butler's hold. "I'll get right on that," he said. "In the Batcave?"

 

"Actually, Master Bruce is in his office. For once."

 

"Got it. Thanks, Alfred."

 

He didn't stick around for small talk. He didn't dare to even stall in the slightest; not while he still had a spine to face the greatest detective among them. Of course, this courage dwindled as the atmosphere surrounding Tim turned bitter with anxiety. 

There wasn't a single reason he could think of that would require Bruce to want to talk to him. No way was it "just because". Bruce didn't _do_ "just because". That stood to be the most concrete yet unspoken rule of associating with him. Maybe with Dick - it seemed like the most natural with those two - or Damian - an obligation Bruce seemed like he didn't mind upholding - did this rule waver. He didn't connect to Stephanie in the same way, using guilt as the only excuse for their unmasked interactions. Maybe.

Barbara, though? He liked her. He could do 'just because' with her.

Cassandra? They didn't do 'just because' together.

 

Jason?

 

Tim nearly laughed in spite of himself as he reached the final stretch of hallway. 

 

Bruce was bitter towards the second Robin, taking everything personally and never seeing past his own nose. He didn't get along with Jason, wouldn't ever do the 'just because' rule-breaking he did for his blood son and first son. The way Tim saw it, Bruce would never even _allow_ himself to do that with the Jason of today. In the past, certainly, but likely never again.

Jason didn't want it, either. Never acted like he did. Never tried to bridge the gap (a gap Tim believed wasn't even on him to cover in the first place, mind you). He was a thorn in Bruce's side that would twist forcefully at the slightest mention. Spiteful, angry, _justified_ —

 

As for Tim?

 

Well, it was pretty obvious.

 

Bruce didn't want to break that unspoken rule for Tim. The interest never existed in the first place.

Tim knew this.

 

Reluctantly, against the big double doors at the end of the corridor, Tim knocked his fist into the slick wood. Almost instantly, he was called to enter. He pushed forward through the doors and entered a room far too big, far too cold, and far too empty. Memory proved to be a little spotty as Tim shuffled towards the desk near the back wall. He couldn't easily recall the last time he had been in the office. There were a few times in his younger years, but nothing recent. Bruce simply didn't spend enough time there.

Thank god for the wristbands as insurance. He expected them to go off a few times in passing, yet they never did. There wasn't anything between him and the big redwood desk. The warmth of sunlight was tangible against his skin when he stopped his soldier march, basking in the light he couldn't feel as it flowed through split curtains. Just to be safe, however, he squinted slightly, pretending to adjust to the glare. He heard the big chair with leather upholstery stretch under a lifting weight. He heard the heavy pat of large hands against the desk. 

Sunshine no longer touched Tim's cheeks, blocked by the broad shoulders of his mentor as he was instead cast in a deep shadow. 

No one spoke for a good bit of time. Tim let his sightless gaze wander to the walls of neatly dusted books, not daring to challenge the superior detective to a staring contest. "Can't remember the last time I was in here," commented the teen. "Didn't think you used it anymore, even though Alfred always took good care of it."

 

"Hn."

 

"Chatty as usual, Bruce. Did you need something from me?" Tim didn't want to be here any longer than necessary, yet he still tried to be friendly. God forbid he attempt small talk with his surrogate father; god forbid said-surrogate father reciprocate. Again, it was all business and didn't have the capacity to be anything else. 

 

The chair dragged carefully against tight carpet and heeled dress shoes stalked across the floor, further from ear shot and likely stopped facing the massive window. Bruce finally said, "Relay your report to me. It sounds like it covered much more than just simply supervising."

As astute as ever. Not. Sighing, Tim repeated almost verbatim what he had been keeping track of for the past week or so. He went on uninterrupted, leaving out the details he deemed unimportant - aka what he didn't want to bother Bruce with, such as this potential affiliation they were dealing with and Jason, for the sake of his own blood pressure - as well as mentioning Elsa and swearing that her father wasn't a concern anymore.

 

"Jedediah Marano," the man said, barely giving a hint of acknowledgement, "is currently in hiding but we've tracked him down within Gotham's city limits. He'll be behind bars properly by the evening. The drug nest is being investigated. Many were considerably injured from gunshot wounds and blunt force. There's a concerning body count, Tim. I hope you're aware of that."

The body count, he knew, was the lone psycho in charge of the drug production. Now, it wasn't an accusatory tone. Of course not. Bruce trusted him at least that much, but it still made his shoulders tense. Tim didn't miss a beat as he replied, "The employees were Gotham locals and have never had personal exposure to that level of crime before. They panicked. Their handler was coked out. Stray bullets aren't a rarity." Again, he excluded Jason's involvement - as he knew Dick did when he gave his own report - and knew he wasn't betraying anything on his face. 

 

"The handler had a bullet right between his eyes."

 

"Got snuck up on as I was interrogating him. Their aim wasn't perfect due to blood loss and adrenaline. A shot that..."

Tim could say a handful of things.

'-that got a little too lucky.'

'-that was fortunate enough to miss me from close proximity.'

But those weren't appropriate.

 

"A shot that, unfortunately, only left me with a hint towards the girl's location and nothing else about motives or intentions," he said in the end.

 

Bruce gave a small, deep hum. "The girl, Elsa, has since been reported to have her eyesight returning."

 

Tim exhaled the breath he had no clue was trapped in his chest. Sagging with the weight of relief - true, unbridled relief - he placed a hand to his chest. "That's good... I was worried."

 

"Yes, well.. It should be completely healed by the end of next week, considering the rate it's recovering. She'll need therapy for a while, but beyond that, she's going to be okay. You and Dick both seem to believe Poison Ivy is responsible, considering eye-witness account, location, injury, and timeframe. However, something about this doesn't match Ivy's M.O.... Even so - Well done, Tim."

 

It was praise.

 

It felt lifeless.

 

Bruce wasn't done there. "You seem to be fine now," he added, "so you should be good to return to WE, as well, right?"

 

"....Right."

 

"Good to hear. You're allowed to return to regular duty as well as take back your usual patrol routes."

 

The older man sounded far away, distant, like he was speaking to someone else. He wasn't looking at Tim. He likely hadn't spared him a second glance since he first arrived. Without a word of parting - not hinting when he'd return next or what his inner thoughts were - with a heavy step, Tim spun on his heel and stormed straight out of the room.

 

Seemed to be fine? Everything can return to its usual state? Such news was probably the best thing Tim got to hear in a while. Even so, it made his mouth dry and his stomach churn bitterly. Fists clenched at his side tightly enough to turn the knuckles a bone chilling white, arms swinging wildly as he marched blindly for his room. He threw aside the sheets dragging against the floor to snatch his backpack by the arm. He stopped at the desk to make sure he had his computer and USBs, had his costume and anything else he might've left out.

Of _course_ he was relieved. Relieved that the greatest detective never once caught onto his ruse, relieved that he had, somehow, perfected his act enough to get by and be put, officially, back on the playing field; both in his nightlife and day life. He was glad that he could get back to work without having others worry. What stung - despite the fact that he should've always expected this - was that Bruce hardly spared him the time of day.

Sure, he told Tim details he likely knew bothered the teen and needed to be reassured. It could've been read in the case file but Tim had stayed behind to make sure Elsa was okay. He had a personal hand in her recovery thus, somehow, earning the right to know upfront how she was doing. For that, he was even grateful.

But the only sound Bruce even uttered while facing him was nothing more than a simple grunt. Not once did he turn around to address him directly. Not once did he bother to confirm whether or not Tim was. If he had, sightless eyes that _didn't_ pin down his exact height and position would be staring in his direction, just a little off center and not at all _**okay**_.

It was infuriating, even if this may have been what he wanted.

 

All Tim cared about was getting home and planning the night's routes, or even preparing for a visit at the office. Whatever his little heart desired. Whatever would distract him the best. He marched back through the hall with nothing else on his mind but the grandfather clock, the garage, and one of the many spare vehicles he could take. Hell, if he so desired, he could take the bus and not even bother with having to potentially return a set of wheels. 

His descent on the staircase was hardly coordinated. Emotion filled his wide steps and his body rolled loosely with the movement. It got to the point where Tim had no other choice but to grip the handrail, even considering slowing down for just a moment. A sweet smell entered his nose rather suddenly, catching him off guard with the soft scent of chocolate and vanilla extract. 

It soothed Tim just enough to where he stopped walking and breathed. No more storming...

 

"Leaving already, Master Tim?" Alfred called somewhere at the base of the stairs. Not to the side, not near to where the main kitchen would be, but directly in the center of the wide first step. No heels had clicked to signify his approach to the staircase. No brush of fabricate suggested the shift of someone in place. 

It took a moment for the teen to locate Alfred, his voice echoing in the tall empty ceilings of the manor's foyer. When he did, his tongue felt thick in his mouth. "Yeah.." Tim managed to get out. "Yeah, Bruce and I are done talking. I'm going home."

 

"You won't stay for a bite of breakfast?"

 

He couldn't smell eggs or bacon. He did, however, catch the few rich tones of coffee brewing.

 

"Not today, Alfred," said Tim with a dismissive roll of his shoulders. "I'm not really in the mood for breakfast."

 

"Then it's a good thing I didn't make it."

His eyebrows shot up in question, head tilted to the side. Alfred chuckled warmly in his chest and it sounded like he was stepping further away. "I truly didn’t expect you to stay, Master Tim," the elder confessed. It wasn’t a stab at Tim’s dissociative behavior or his distance to the family. With the way he said it, it was merely a playful comment, one the smile in his tone said was almost prideful. Like he felt proud to know the teen so well as to plan his course of action. Continuing, he said, "However, I bet my left hand that I can convince you to stay with cookies and coffee."

And he was right. He was so, so right. Tim didn’t hear a commotion anywhere else on the bottom floor. No one was in the kitchen trying to lick clean a wooden spoon covered in cookie dough. No one made small talk or hummed to a song that played from their phone. It was just him and Alfred. Sweet Alfred with the best coffee and the best assortment of cookie recipes.

Alfred wouldn’t question his uneven movements. Bruce wouldn’t be down until much later in the day. Dick would’ve already been running around if he was still in the house and Damian wouldn’t bother to socialize in such an unnecessary fashion. Cassandra would come take a cookie later - she always did - and Stephanie didn’t stay in the manor super often.

It was just...perfect.

 

His grip on the rail went slack, his shoulders slowly lowered. "That sounds wonderful, actually,” said Tim at last, now mindful of the steps beneath his feet instead of charging into oblivion. Everything could wait. He wanted this; hell, he _needed_ this. Alfred’s warmth enveloped his entire right side and an arm wrapped over the back of his shoulders. With a friendly squeeze that Tim couldn’t free himself from, he let Alfred steer him to the kitchen where cookies and coffee, as promised, awaited.


	8. The Average 9-to-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to return to the grind just like any other Joe. Tim makes his reappearance at Wayne Enterprises, where no one suspects a thing and everything stayed the same during his long absence. This is, except for a new intern. 
> 
>  
> 
> Not to mention his _other_ job still requires his attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes. Office jobs. _Exhilarating_
> 
>  
> 
> I like it so far but might edit this.

Wayne Enterprise brand sunglasses, cellphone, and anniversary tote from last year; he was a walking endorsement of everything the Wayne family built up. Slipping cool metal frames down the bridge of his nose once his dress shoes clacked in the main lobby, Tim let himself be swallowed by the clamorous drone of office work. The heater was on, chasing away the chill of morning yet not turning the air stuffy.

He could smell cleaner on the floor, could smell fresh flowers from a vase on one of the coffee tables to his right, and even heard the chirp of a phone not yet put on silent. This was work. And someone called him out the minute he was recognized. Heels - stilettos - approached him in a hurry, Lancôme Tresor fragrance filled his nose, overpowering everything else until his eyes watered at the corners. He recognized the perfume despite not being exposed to it in a while. She - Vanessa Grace, age 27, acting head of human resources - stood a little bit taller than him but Tim paid no mind, he simply folded the arms of the sunglasses and tucked them into his blazer pocket.

She spoke first, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

 

He heard the 'ba dum tss' in his own head because, honestly, it just really be like that sometimes. 

 

"It's good to be back," Tim responded, following her lead to the elevators in the east wing. "I didn't get many emails while I was away - I take it everything went smoothly?"

 

"Yeah, we didn't have very many problems. Heather went on maternity leave, finally—"

 

"Finally."

 

"—and now she's dealing with twins."

 

"Wow."

 

"We managed to secure a deal in Seoul thanks to the files you sent us your third week out, so we've made headway with that. And lots of temp-job applications have been coming through as we get closer to the summer season."

 

They shuffled into the next available elevator and their one-on-one discussion came to an end when more people tried to talk to the CEO. Tim feigned interest with every single one of them, but didn't have to put _nearly_ as much energy into it as one would've normally expected. They only asked about his health or mentioned the weather, never once demanding his undivided attention so he was free to stare at the glossy stainless steel doors across from him. Eventually, he said goodbye to Vanessa as she disembarked on the 23rd floor.

Conversation tapered off now that the "boldest" among them had left. He didn't mind. One by one, the elevator emptied until he was the last one remaining. At his floor - Tim recognized the way the pulley creaked this high up, which was only a beat faster than the little electronic voice in the ceiling - he strode out with his head held high.

The floorplan was already fleshed out in his head. Wherever the water cooler was, the hall diverged towards spaced cubicles and conference rooms. Down the left hall were the printers and fax machines; on the right was the break room - somewhere. The deeper Tim went, the more luxurious it would become. The walls would be glass for some of the conference rooms and specialized offices. Somewhere in the distance, muffled through thick glass, someone's office chair rattled with the sudden loss of weight. A voice spoke quickly and, eventually, it became clear like crystal as a door swung open ahead of him. Naturally, Tim stopped.

This was the right move. 

 

"Mr. Wayne- Tim, you're back," the man commented. 

 

He smiled casually. Smoothly. Gesturing limply with his hand, Tim continued to walk and took a wide arch around the door. "Sorry to have been gone so long. If it were up to me, I'd have been back a month ago."

 

"I understand." Brent Hurlock, age 34 and a GSU alumni, was quick to follow behind him. "Luckily, nothing burned down while you were away. Everything has been working out for the best. Though... Maybe I just jinxed us..?"

 

Tim gave a breathy laugh in response and tucked his hands into his pockets. He was maybe 150 paces away from his door. Brent would need to go on his merry way if Tim wanted to set up his office to accommodate his new lifestyle, but as they got closer, the teen knew there was more he needed to worry about on-site as opposed to behind closed doors. Stopping just steps before the threshold of his private office, he extended a hand outward.

Brent was just shy of 5’9” and Tim knew this. He also knew the exact distance thanks to - you guessed it - the vibrating sensors in his sleeves, as well as the warmth radiating outward somewhere to the left.

His fingers brushed the side of Brent’s bicep, where he gave a strong pat. "Humor me," Tim played, "are there going to be paper resumes on my desk or are they electronic?"

 

Humor him indeed - his colleague laughed a little too hard. "Both. I’ll make sure the email went through but, for now, your inbox has a collection of those temp resumes."

 

"Wonderful, thank you."

 

This was the usual routine, one he felt curdling in his veins. Brent made a comment about getting coffee for him - which Tim respectfully declined, claiming he wanted his Keurig more than anything else - and they finally parted. 

The office was dark. He could tell from the cool temperature hanging in the air, how it varied from that of the hall and the main lobby, the blinds drawn. No one ever came into the office without his prior approval so it had been like this for nearly two months. The cleaning crew kept dust from accumulating at the very least, but they didn’t typically let the sun in.

Whatever.

 

Making his way to the big desk in the middle of the room, Tim sat down carefully in his chair. His fingers drummed against the polished wood. His foot tapped against the carpet and the mat under his wheels. A sense of stillness completely overtook everything else.

Sounds cut out except for the soft, distant clamor of Gotham’s streets below and the tick of an analog clock over the door. He couldn’t smell anything. Couldn’t really taste anything on his tongue. He still couldn’t _see_ by any means, obviously, but even his sense of touch had escaped him.

' _Surreal…_ ' was the only thought in his head. An office job was more different from his night job than he really expected.l

 

Tim tapped his foot one beat of sync and his body jolted back to the present. Relying on muscle memory, he grabbed a thin remote from the top right drawer of his desk and pressed one of the two buttons. The blinds behind him automatically parted, warmth soaking into his shoulders and scalp— "There we go," sighed the teen. 

He sank deeper into the taut folds of the leather chair and put away the remote. Turning on his main computer and the two monitors, Tim got to work with the ultimate performance. He planned it the night before; how he’d behave, how he’d make his office a suspicion-free setting where he could drop the act from time to time.

Tim began tapping away lamely on an actively useless keyboard, and even picked up the corded phone on the left side of his desk, moving his mouth as if speaking into the receiver despite hearing nothing but the dial tone; he even went so far as to bob his head in thought before putting it back. After he reset to his original position, the raven slipped his phone out of his pocket before setting the lone security camera in the whole room to a loop remotely.

Better safe than sorry, right?

Finally, with the computer giving its usual hum and the keys clacking out his password, Tim stuck in his trusty USB.

 

It came to life in his ear.

 

Back to work.

  


\+ + 

  


By noon, Tim was slamming his head down on the desk hard enough to give himself a concussion.

  


\+ + 

  


By five o’clock, when the sun was surely beginning its slow decline into the horizon, Tim was practically storming out of the office. He barely paid attention to the phone calls or resumes or literally _anything_ else he had piling up in his folder.

  


\+ + 

  


Red Robin was on the streets by 7:00 on the DOT. He kept himself busy beyond belief; officially off light duty, he could take care of the gangs in his area, patrol the alleys as many times as he pleased, swoop in wherever his assistance was needed without anyone asking questions.

There were a few new outliers he didn’t recognize - new slang and a new dialect that didn’t catch with the typical gangs or inhabitants of Chinatown that started popping up was one of them - but nothing had changed in his spotty absence. Black Bat, Cassandra, had handled the area with the utmost control and precision. It certainly made coming back that much easier.

 

Cespi never made its appearance this far south so Tim didn’t have to worry about flushing it out.

 

At 8:15pm, Barbara made contact: "Marano is behind bars and has a massive lawsuit on his hands that even the crooked cops can’t risk overlooking."

Tim didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Perched on the corner of the One Gotham Center’s roof, he simply smiled in spite of himself.

 

**.**

 

For the following week, life for Tim Drake continued in a rotation of _dying_ at his day job and _thriving_ at his night job. When all he could do was sit and listen to the readback from his updated responder, listening to reports was a complete and total drag; he couldn’t do anything (or, rather, refused to) until he knew all the details, so he had to exercise his patience.

It was like watching paint dry.

Any opportunity the teen had to leave the office and engage with something other than the same robotic voice on repeat was one he took gracious advantage of. If it was lunch with Vanessa, a conference on a different floor, or a company dinner with sponsors from Rome, Tim was always the first on his feet.

 

After the second week came and went, Tim finally came to terms with his predicament. He even adapted; now the readback had a stop-and-go speed setting. It allowed him to get through documents much faster, made sure he was alert the whole time, and trained his ability to process information quickly; ultimately, a beneficial feature on all playing fields.

 

Come the start of the third, the board decided on their temps and interns, and they were already in the building Monday morning.

 

He was curious - of _course_ he was. These temps and interns had the potential to become full-time employees; whether or not they got that far, they were still the faces of Wayne Enterprises. They mattered.  
After going through the resumes a fourth time, Tim settled on the top recommendation and sent out an email that afternoon.

Work as usual… At least it wasn’t boring enough to kill him.

  


\+ + 

  


By Tuesday evening, Tim wore a professional smile and was awaiting the arrival of the highly recommended intern. Their meeting was set for 6:30 the high-end French bistro, Verjus, in the Diamond District. It was currently 6:25. If they were late by a few minutes, he’d let it go; they were a student after all.

That, at least, was the plan.

But they weren’t late.

 

In fact, at 6:30 exactly, the chair across from him scraped against the hardwood floor, cutting through the clink of wine glasses and chatter of gussied up patrons like a gong. He brought his head back and stared straight into the emptiness, daring to betray mild surprise on his face. 

"Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne!" the young man exclaimed. "I hope you weren’t waiting for too long?" He took great care to mention both last names; if he hadn’t been sure which to use, it was wise to use them all. 

So far so good.

 

Tim was trained in the art of smooth talking. This was child’s play. Smiling carefully, he offered a shake of his head. "Not at all." It sounded like, while the chair had been pulled out from under the table, the intern never sat down. Even _better_. Tim rose to his feet in order to meet them, extending his hand and receiving a strong, enthusiastic shake in return. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Cameron," he greeted, "Sorry I wasn’t there for your interview process."

 

Cameron Drake - no relation - was currently a student at Gotham State studying business just like many of the applicants. However, he wasn’t just your average student. Hailing from Carson City, Nevada, he had an amazing volunteer record, was minoring in marketing relations, arrived with an honors scholarship, had an amazing GPA, and even filled out the “optional” (it’s never optional) essay requirement for the internship with the most detailed, concise, literate submission Tim ever had the pleasure of reading— Err...hearing…

Not a single line felt unnecessary. Not a word felt robotic. The board was looking for details, information, and ambition in the essay; Tim felt like he met Cameron Drake through a piece of paper.

He was certainly an interesting character.

 

They sat down in sync to each other. Tim could hear the tap of no-slip shoes behind him to the right and raised his hand, gesturing for the waiter to approach. "Yes, Monsieur?"

 

"Water for the table please," requested Tim, passing an almost smug, satisfied smirk in Cameron’s direction. “As well as a bottle of Bordeaux. Chateau Gazin, 2015 should be good."

 

"Right away."

 

He had...far too much interest in the new intern for one specific reason; Tim was four years his junior. Having an age difference between superiors and employees wasn’t unheard of. After all, Tim was younger than EVERYONE at Wayne Enterprises. What made him curious was how someone so close in age would react to a younger, highly-standing superior that could and would flaunt their feathers as Tim did - all for show.

As soon as the waiter stalked off to the next table, he focused all attention on the young man opposite of him. "Do you drink, Cameron?"

 

"Only on special occasions, sir," was the response. With a laugh that felt so natural and warm, catching Tim way off guard, he added, "I have expensive tastes so I gotta make sure it’s well worth it, y’know?"

 

No, he didn’t know. The Drake family was well-off, the Wayne family was well-off. This wasn’t new information so surely Cameron knew that. Still, the way he said it held no shame or even hiccuped, like he was making sincere conversation despite whatever standing Tim had.

 

' _Oh, okay,_ ' Tim registered distantly, letting his posture relax somewhat, ' _I_ really _like this one_.'

 

"Are you a fan of wine?"

 

"Of course! I prefer it over vodka and tequila, stuff like that."

 

"Bordeaux is very nice, then. It’s more robust and rounded. You’ve really got to enjoy wine to appreciate it."

 

"I’m looking forward to it."

 

  


Conversation from that point onward flowed like a river. They ordered appetizers, sipped wine, discussed the entrees, and, as they waited for the main course, Tim talked business.

He asked about Cameron’s aspirations for the future, what he liked about Gotham, why he chose Wayne Enterprises when he could’ve stayed on the west coast for other big corporate groups. Hell, W.E. even had an office near San Francisco; he could’ve stayed there!

Cameron paused for a moment - the only hesitation he displayed all night - and gingerly swirled the wine in his glass. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, yet still leagues louder than the other patrons. "I’ll be completely honest with you, but you have to promise not to laugh," he said.

 

Tim’s brow shot up curiously. Dabbing at his lip with the cloth napkin, he eventually leaned forward, casting playful glances every which way as if he was making sure the coast was clear. "You have my word."

The table creaked with Cameron’s own weight. They were leaning over a table cloth-adorned table in a fancy French restaurant like children sharing a secret. Wow.

 

"The truth is… Because of Batman."

  


  


Tim erupted in a fit of violent coughs, trying to force down the very saliva he stupidly choked on. 

Who on _Earth_ would want to move to a city where Batman - the Caped Crusader, the Dark Knight, the scariest ass-kicker in North America - and, likewise, all of Batman’s psycho enemies, lived year-round?! He wasn’t laughing, he was concerned!

 

His guest waited for him to stop, making no comment of his outbreak as both sat up straight again. "Sounds ridiculous, I know," Cameron agreed, "but I can’t help it. I admire him. He’s a hero, and a really good one! He’s super cool."

 

Reaching for the goblet of water, Tim tried to carry a jovial tone when he spoke, "You sound like a superhero fanboy."

 

"You got that right."

 

"PFFT—"

 

Water shot up like a geyser and sputtered up Tim’s nose, to the point where public figure Timothy Drake-Wayne, acting CEO of Wayne Enterprises, had to keep from waterboarding himself a second time. Cameron laughed.

At least there weren’t any hostilities.

 

At least Tim didn’t look like a complete ass.

 

With a heavy thud, their entrees arrived as Tim tried to dab the water off his lapel. He forced the embarrassed heat in his ears to go away through sheer will alone, picking up his utensils and starting to scoop up his beef tartare. With a small, inconspicuous sniff and a hoarse voice, he said, "Your duck confit smells good."

 

"Hehe… Yeah, it really does."

  


\+ 

  


After desserts - Tim only got a coffee, but Cameron gushed over what he said was "the best creme brulee in the world" - they stepped out onto Gotham’s damp street. A thin veil of fog covered the city, cars bustling back and forth as sirens bounced off the concrete jungle. "I think it’s finally warming up," Tim commented under his breath, shrugging deeper into his coat.

 

Cameron wasn’t looking at him. Instead, the elder was shuffling through his pockets for a set of keys. "I’d hope so," the young man said. "It’s almost May. Do you like summers in Gotham?"

 

"It gets muggy and humid, and the clouds never seem to go away at night."

 

"Oh. Uh… Neat?"

 

"Still, the whole city really comes to life in the summer. There are more festivals for movies and the arts, there are even farmer’s markets and cook-offs." Nodding his head as if convincing himself, Tim closed his eyes. "Summer isn’t so bad."

 

"That’s good at least—"

 

Cameron went quiet, prompting Tim to lurch from his thoughts. Casting a sideways glance to the male on his right, he asked, "What’s up?"

A coat shifted and a weight passed by his face, evidence of Cameron pointing but not speaking, and Tim had to follow his gesture. Squinting as if he didn’t get what the fuss was about, he risked shrugging his shoulders.

  


Cameron smacked him on the shoulder with his other hand. " _Dude_!" he gushed, "It’s— I _saw_ someone! I swear I did - with a bat-symbol and everything!"

 

The raven’s heart skipped one whole beat.

Maybe even two.

 

Hell, maybe even three.

 

He needed to figure out what was coming next; no one just made themselves blatantly known like that.

 

Somewhere far away, through the cotton in his ears, Tim heard Cameron speak again: "It’s not Batman, obviously—"

 

"Obviously..?"

 

"—and he was too far away for me to be sure. I think he’s one of those neutral-guys."

  


Tim snorted, shaking his head as he planned out the next few steps. "Neutral guys?" he repeated as he turned to face Cameron. "How long have you lived here again?"

 

He got what sounded like giggle in reply. "For a year now but, you said it yourself, right? I’m a superhero fanboy. And I only freakout over the good ones, so neutral counts as good."

 

"Gotcha."

 

"I haven’t seen that guy much, though, and I only saw him for like fifteen seconds—"

 

Fifteen seconds was a REALLY long time for a Bat’s standards.

 

"—so maybe I’m not as well-versed as I thought on Gotham vigilantes. I’m sure you see them all the time, what with you being a hot-shot and Gotham native, right?"

 

Tim didn’t answer right away, instead keeping one eyebrow raised and his lips pulled in an amused smirk. It took about ten seconds of staring for Cameron to suddenly squeak and slap skin against skin - likely, his hand directly over his mouth.

He floundered on the spot. "I-I-I am SO sorry, Mr. Drake! Mr. Wayne! Mister Sir!" Shoes shuffled against the damp sidewalk and Cameron sounded absolutely beside himself, voice raising a few octaves with embarrassment. "Wow, I— I _completely_ stepped out of line there, didn’t I? I can’t apologize enough. I didn’t mean to talk your ear off, sir, or suddenly touch you outta nowhere. I’m terribly sorry!"

Tim waved his hand, laughing as he said, "Let’s set a few ground rules, okay? Just call me Tim - I think we’re friendly enough, don’t you?"

 

"Y-yessir."

 

"Another thing. You also don’t have to call me ‘sir’ when we’re not on the clock."

 

Cameron mumbled something under his breath but was likely nodding his understanding. Good enough.

 

This time, Tim put a hand on the older’s shoulder (5’10”, a little bit of a reach, probably weighing in at 132lbs and had some obvious muscle development under the layers of clothing). "I have some work to take care of at home, so get back safely and good luck with lecture. I’ll see you at work." Just to ease Cameron’s anxiety, he smiled, adding, "Let’s get coffee sometime. We probably have a lot more in common than others at the office."

 

The awkward shuffling and mumbling completely stopped. Tension felt like it was pouring out of Cameron’s posture.

 

  


Good-hearted, sincere, enthusiastic, and easygoing; this was Tim’s analysis of Cameron after they parted ways. He panicked _after_ all was said and done, apologized for mistakes, yet adapted when given a bit of reassurance. When work kicked off with new projects for the summer, Tim felt confident that the intern would do well. 

Out of the four newly employed bodies, at least one was a good apple. He’d ask the other supervisors for reports on the next three by Friday.

 

For now, it was 8:21 on a Tuesday night.

 

**.**

 

  


Tim returned to his apartment by 8:40 - curse Gotham traffic - and was swinging out over the city by 8:50, cape billowing in the harbor breeze. 

 

Normally, he would’ve started with the standard patrol route; tackle the outside, work your way inside, branch from there. Answer the call wherever you are needed. The usual. Not tonight, however.

Tonight, he had a beacon on his radar - one that triggered in the Diamond District around 8:15 and had since moved. As the dark grew dense, to the point of being tangible against his skin, Tim swung to the highest point his grapple would allow. He disengaged the hook, popped out the length of his cape, and caught a new gust in the leather until he was gliding over a bustling cityscape. 

Realistically, it was a little excessive. The waypoint wasn’t far at all but it could wait. He was still thinking about what came next.

 

At 9:02 he finally touched down on the Chinese embassy’s rooftop where the blip had been waiting. Scanners indicated that the security cameras were disabled via EMP - had been for about three minutes. Cigarette smoke overpowered the smell of wet asphalt and dust and the gross lingering odor of ancient urine, though god knows what kind of hobo would climb so high just to take a leak. 

The tobacco was fresh, made the air warm in his lungs. So reliant on his sensations, of _course_ Tim gravitated just that little bit closer to the source.

Not too close though.

 

"Did you get lost?" he finally asked. Vibrations softly massaged against his shins as the beacon sat about two yards ahead of him. 

 

There was a soft exhale, a waft of fresh cigarette smoke, then a voice that set every nerve alight. A voice Tim could _feel_ ; the curiosity he finally identified between Cass making him miss his sight, and Dick making him see.

 

It had been a while since he last heard it.

 

 

A gruff laugh made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight. The gravel tone scraping at the start of the one-word sentence had Tim fighting chills. "Nah," said the Red Hood. Tim heard every minute movement that followed as if it was in his own skull; heard heavy boots coming onto the roof from where they previously dangled, the shift of a jacket as a torso twisted, the soft rock of a gun in its holster. He even heard the gentle topple of a helmet against the ground as it was pushed aside.

 

"I’m right where I wanna be, Replacement."

 

' _Hoo boy…_ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim smacking his head on the desk was me trying to write the first part of this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> God I honestly love the last section—


	9. To Chase Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason couldn't go to anyone else, he _wouldn't_ , but Tim isn't sure he understands why this is all happening in the first place: 
> 
> Two crime groups with no connection whatsoever - different sides of town, different cultures, different interests, different internal hierarchies - are seconds from ripping each other's throats out and starting a war in Gotham over the unwarranted deaths of their members, but the clues aren't making sense.
> 
> Tim can't shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo I've been listening to songs that make me think of our boys and HONESTLY if you want a JayTim playlist for this story I GOTCHU.
> 
> I also plan on doing a lot of Tim Drake art soon (Jason's hair is going to be the death of me, he's later on) so lemme know if anyone's interested in that or wants to see something specific
> 
> Thanks for being patient! This was a fun update especially because of certain reasons that you'll learn in the future; I'm setting the stage for the MAIN plot device, which will start to become a partial focal point as the story goes on.

Jason stood too close. Like, _way_ too close; an idle motor, Tim rumbled in place from how the sensors in his suit translated the ENTIRE obstruction across from him, leaving nothing behind.

Just like his words and his voice, Jason was hot.

  


Not— Not hot-hot.

  


Damn.

  


Okay, well, _obviously_ Jason Todd was attractive. All of the Waynes were - Tim knew he was categorized as good-looking just like the rest of them, only he didn’t have the same natural charm as they did and functioned more as a Basic Model - but Jason was wild and powerful and physically perfect.

He had the low purr of a motorcycle, the roar of a jet engine, the claws and pride of a lion. He could be slick or brash, but never was it uncharacteristic or totally unappealing. Last Tim checked, there was still a white patch in the elder’s hair. Last he saw, there was a green tint to those sharp, glinting eyes.

That wasn’t his point.

  


No, like his voice, Jason was hot the same way a forge was hot. Hot like a buckle left in the sun or hot like a gun only seconds after firing. Hot in an unexpected sort of way, when you’re not ready for your skin to be branded and every cell ignites in shock.

Jason _radiated_ heat, stood - likely - with his shoulders back and his chest forward, a solid seven inches over Tim.

But Tim was stubborn and refused to back up.

  


He kept his arms at his sides, straightening his posture. "Didn’t think you’d tail me in plain sight," he pulled.

 

"Sorry, did I interrupt your date?"

 

"It wasn’t a date. It was work."

 

"C’mon, Red, don’t kid yourself. He’s a real doll; mousy brown hair straight outta damn romance novel."

  


One positive thing came out of the teasing; now Tim had a visual detail for Cameron’s appearance.  
Jerking his head to the side once, the vigilante kept his expression vague beneath the cowl. "You read romance novels? How unexpected." False - Tim saw the bookshelf in Jason’s room back at the manor. He even read most of the collection; a sixth of it had been romance novels. Not the cheesy kind, but really _good_ novels.

Jason took the poke in stride. His coat shifted and hands came to his hips, rattling a second gun in its holster as he said, "I’ve got a broad interest, princess. I’m cultured."

  


Tim felt his brow pinch in annoyance. "Drop the princess thing already."

  


"What, you don’t like it?"

  


"Fuck off."

  


"Oooh. Feisty." Jason chuckled deeply, the raw tone of it unhindered without the hood. "Alright, I’ll let it go. Don’t you worry though; I’ll find something else."

 

Rolling his eyes, Tim shifted gears. There was a reason Jason set off a beacon in the Diamond District. There was a reason why he was in Chinatown, directly opposite to his own prowling grounds and on the other side of town. There was a reason why Jason Todd stood in front of him, exposing his neck in an area where he could’ve been tracked down by any other Bat. He tried to keep his voice neutral and uninterested, but the inflection was undeniable, "What do you want, Hood?"

A new wave of vibrations struck him like lightning when Jason stepped closer. "We’ve got a problem," said the older male. "I don’t care if you’re not interested - you hearin’ me, Replacement? I don’t care if this ain’t your problem, I don’t care if you’ve got other things goin’ on. I don’t care if the office goes up in smoke. You gotta help me."

 

Tim was weak. Horribly, horribly weak. He heard every single shift in resonance, visualized in his weird, foggy mind’s eye what Jason might’ve exposed on his features without the helmet; what he might’ve exposed to _Tim_. Maybe it was a desperate need to meet his predecessor's expectations, or maybe it was this masochistic thing in him that wanted to prove itself. Or, maybe it was this proud, warm feeling embroidered with surprise at having Jason ask for his help. In person.

Face-to-face.

So yeah, maybe Tim was weak, because in spite of his better judgment he nodded. Leather went tight as Jason straightened his posture. He said, "Gimme more than that. You gotta help-help. None of that half-assed shit."

  


"Hahah… Hood, I _heard_ you." Tim reached out and knocked the back of his hand into the outlaw’s chest. Offering a crooked smile, he made it as clear as he could. "I don’t _do_ half-assed," Tim assured. "What kind of help are we talking about here? What’s the problem?"

He didn’t take his hand back right away. As a matter of fact, Tim _liked_ having direct contact. He liked feeling the minute changes beneath the breastplate with every one of Jason’s exhales, or shifts he made as his stance loosened. Their close proximity with each other allowed Tim to maintain contact while the outlaw relaxed. Only when Jason made an audible inhale did he retract his hand.

Then Jason moved closer still, swinging an arm up to chest level; he could feel the concentrated vibrations across his sternum but, admittedly, Tim knew he’d need to change the frequency to accommodate prolonged close-encounters like this.

It wasn’t until the elder said a simple, "Take a look at this" that Tim finally remembered his predicament. Remembered the weighted darkness he temporarily dismissed with painted visuals. He had no clue what Jason was showing him, or what he was to expect, or what was going on.

  


‘ _Oh shit.._ ’

  


His panic went unnoticed. "Last week, the leaders of a buncha small gang-subgroups in Chinatown and Crime Alley disappeared," Jason explained, clearly paying him no mind. "It caught the attention of the head honchos and lots of the bigger families in the area, shit’s about as tense as piano wire. The Neon Hounds gang, the new guys—"

  


Tim kept tabs since his return to patrol. Nothing got out of hand while he was away, but Cassandra keyed him in early on about the signs of the new boys on the block. They didn’t stir up much trouble under her watchful eye, nor did they really make themselves known after Red Robin made a reappearance. They were a Chinese-American gang that was large in the scale of alliances and plentiful enough in members to have a name for themselves, its core group tightly knit and protected. They had been silent.

Apparently he missed something.

  


"—have started up shit with the Ibanescu Family outta nowhere. Did you know about this?"

  


"No..."

  


"Well, whatever. Anyways, last night all of those leaders that vanished suddenly turned up. _Dead_. Marked and mutilated and branded with the symbol of both Ibanescu and the Neon Hounds, scattered across Central Gotham like a damn Christmas window display."

 

Frowning, Tim pointed out, "But both are claiming they didn’t do it." This was a textbook response. Predictable.

  


Jason laughed and leaned his shoulder against the younger’s. "You betcha. No one’s listening. No one really cares, y’know? Someone did it, and so long as someone pays, who cares."

 

"Then, the big problem?" He tilted his head back to stare. "You wouldn’t come looking for me and prod around the Bats unless it was serious."

  


"The fighting is getting worse," admitted Jason, "but the reason _you_ haven’t been made aware of it is because it’s happening outside your turf, kept on the downlow for right now. It’s beyond both our borders."

 

Obviously, Tim didn’t want to test his luck. Turning Jason hostile - especially when he was so deep in Tim’s personal bubble - was a death wish. Still, he was a pretty vain person; he believed he owed himself the right to ask whatever he pleased. "Central Gotham, yeah? Wouldn’t Black Bat be better?" he asked.

If he had been in Jason’s shoes, or at the very least been made aware of the growing conflict well in advance, the Red Hood wouldn’t have been his first go-to. Stephanie had exposure to some of Crime Alley’s threads and those of the East End, so she would’ve been his preference. Cassandra, however, monitored a lot of Central Gotham. She understood the gangs, the ruthless behavior. Could translate minute actions as if they were entire narratives.

She was a damn good hero. Any chance he’d get to work with her one-on-one, Tim would take. Especially now, when no one else but her knew of his complication. Imagine how liberating it would be to not have to pretend for a while.

 

A warm breath washed over his exposed cheeks when Jason leaned closer. Tone drawled, voice a deep whisper as if worried about being overheard, the outlaw was _way too close_. He said, "I need a detective. One I can work with - I think you fit the bill there, Replacement."

 

He said it once, he’d say it again.

 

‘ _Hoo boy._ ’

  


\+ + 

  


Tim’s night-job made the day-job enjoyable. The amount of meetings spiked and he had to entertain the swarm of representatives each time, coordinate among them directly. Realistically, the acting CEO didn’t get so personally involved, but Tim took pride in his work. Since each day didn’t feel like a drag anymore, he worked it well.

It was in between these meetings that he focused on the new joint-case between him and Jason. Red Hood.

It would be a lie to say he _wasn’t_ pleased. He didn’t dare reveal his satisfaction, but it lingered like a warm buzz in the back of his mind. This wasn’t a requirement of circumstances or Tim insisting, this was Jason seeking him out. This was Jason deciding to work _with_ him. For the safety of the little guy, of course - he expected nothing less.

If this unrelated gang and crime family from two opposite ends of the city, along with those in alliance, erupted in war, the streets would become dangerous for everyone. If that happened, Crime Alley would swell into an absolute, irredeemable hellscape, Chinatown would become the new version of Crime Alley, neutral zones would cease to exist, and Batman would get involved.

That last one was the least favorable option.

 

After the last meeting with his new Seoul representatives took longer than expected, Tim came home with a fresh, exhausted weight on his shoulders. Slamming the apartment door shut behind him and trudging over to the couch, he bore a complete disregard for literally everything in his path. He dropped his bag by the kitchen - its heavy corner knocked against tile - and tossed his jacket on the arm of the couch - it landed in a soft _poof_ of fabric folds, but fell onto the floor immediately afterward, buttons clicking carefully against the hardwood.

Tim wanted to be that jacket.

Foot sliding against the jacket, he threw himself onto the couch without hesitation, flicking open his laptop with a thumb. Despite meeting with Jason less than 72 hours ago, the younger already had a solid file going.

 

The main groups involved and their individual motives:

Ibanescu Crime Family, smaller but with a heavy influence, has stakes in animal fights, human trafficking, and prostitution.

Neon Hounds, a small gang possessing tight bonds with other gangs and factions, usual operations are still unknown but some members have been spotted dealing drugs near the district border. Have been mentioned in missing-person case files over the last three months, but those that went missing reappeared soon enough. 

 

Affiliates and Alliances:

Ibanescu appears to have some interpersonal connections to the Russian Mafia - the mob and even the Hammer, but relations may not be recent. Rumored to have operated under a different alias with some of the Irish families and, potentially, some Italian families as well but there was no guarantee.

Neon Hounds have some kind of connection to many rivaling gangs in Chinatown. Remnants of the Steel Unicorns, Innocent Devils, and Hanoi Ten; all known rivals of the Golden Dragons. Some of Neon Hounds’ subgroups, however, had been spotted conversing with active Golden Dragon members. Bonds seemed solid, but loyalty is doubtful.

  


Leaders (Deceased):

Ibanescu lost about four of their high-ranked family members. Two died of blood loss from multiple stab wounds, bruised and marked by signs of blunt trauma, while the other two had far different endings; one had mild dismemberment (limb was found under a bridge tied to a cement block) while the other died of asphyxiation.  
Had carvings of a greyhound’s profile - done poorly - in their thighs.

Neon Dragons lost double what Ibanescu did. They were killed in similar, nearly identical ways save for two; one was found behind a dumpster, corpse being devoured by feral street dogs, and the other had been strung-up on a neon sign near the gardens.  
They had cigar burns scattered like connect-the-dots on their shoulders, shaped into a little zigzag lightning bolt with two corners - a Romanian folk symbol.

  


Activity:

Ibanescu flickered in and out of activity for the past few years. They still had street cred, where the very mention had survivors or ex-members cowering, but didn’t act out of line to attract the attention of masks. In fact, their last known operation was three months prior.

Neon Hounds were fresh, but the signs of their activity was everywhere when someone bothered to look closely. Even then, it was vague.

 

Tim couldn’t just _assume_ that absolutely no one from either side was responsible for the brewing storm. Someone did it - all that mattered was who, then why. Off the top of his head, racking through years of experience filed neatly away, Tim didn’t find any rational answers; what would _anyone_ benefit from pitting a crime family against a fledgling gang on the other end of town? What was there to be gained from having a war break out?

  


_Experience_ said one of the A-list-baddies would pull a stunt like this.

  


_Logic_ said a city-wide gang war - made so massive yet so unpredictable by the alliances alone - would leave nothing but chaos behind for the instigator. A-listers worked smarter, not harder. Such a plan was counter-intuitive.

  


_Reason_ said that, if it was an A-lister, Batman would have already gone to work.

 

The third night of the case began with Tim making extensive, intimate rounds of Chinatown’s streets. He planned on finding this new gang personally, put tabs on some of their members and learn about internal motivations. Since they were so green, a lot of variables needed to be considered; maybe he would even have to go undercover in casual civies to learn something.

He _understood_ the threat looming over the skyline. Tim just didn’t see the purpose.

But maybe Jason noticed it too.

  


\+ + 

  


Another Hound went missing - a regular member this time - prompting Tim to work ahead of schedule.

 

Off and on for the past few days, the vigilante had been working on a new upgrade to his suit. He couldn’t expect to do his job without his sight - at least not _well_. So, he took to expanding upon a pre-existing concept of real-time auditory description - similar to the software in his computer - only with something in direct view, like looking through the lens of a camera. Unlike a movie with audio-descriptive options, the real-time and the view part were where Tim really had to struggle.

He had to link words to colors and shapes and textures; link words to synonyms and variations; apply distance and measurements by identifying a range spanning the length of his floorplan, as far as he could possibly force it; make it operate consistently, reactive and responsive.

On a good day, it would’ve been difficult. Since he was blind? Impossible.

Mostly.

  


Thankfully, if he could establish a tracker that would follow the instinctive movements of his eyes, all Tim would have to do is replicate the internal software on his computer, add the new components and voila. Just...getting to that point was an entirely different story.

So when the gang member went missing, Tim called out from work the night he found out, stayed home, and worked nonstop from three in the morning until late into the evening. At its current stage, the tech wasn’t fit to be added to his costume.  
But he planned for that.

  


\+ + 

  


He practiced his accent, refreshed his memory. Pushing thick-framed, wide lensed glasses up his face, Tim approached a man standing next to an open-air market, cars rushing past on his left. The descriptions were choppy in his ears as his eyes darted rapidly like water skeeters on a pond. At first, it had been difficult to focus on the stream of words while he walked, but it became background noise soon enough just like the whine of fluorescent lights.

_"Face. Face. Male, beard, tattoo, green. Three yards. Closer."_

Picking apart the important information was hard; making sense of it was worse.

Tim didn’t clear his throat. He glanced around, pivoting slightly to inspect the market’s wares - _"Dragon Fruit. One foot."_ \- before speaking. " **[** I can’t find Li anywhere, **]** " the teen said in his long-practiced Cantonese, weighing a dragon fruit in his palm. The fruit’s skin was thick but smooth, its body dense.

By tapping the metal clip on his leather bracelet, he could mute the audio stream, perfect for moments when he needed to pay close attention to his surroundings; or when he was staring at exotic fruit.

His left sweatband, the arm limp at his side, began to vibrate when the man drew closer, steps slow against the damp concrete.

  


" **[** I’ve checked the harbors, I’ve checked the alley behind Pho 5150, where he usually hangs out on his days off, **]** " Tim went on, acting unbothered by the man’s silence. “ **[** I owe him a lot. I hate to think he might be one of the next to go. **]** " Curling his fingers towards his inner wrist, unmuting the stream, he turned his head to the side. He didn’t dare look at the man directly, feigning caution as he peered at the busy street. " **[** It’s fresh, but have you heard anything new? **]** "

  


A clammy, meaty hand gripped Tim’s shoulder like a vice, forcing him to spin fully on his heel and face the man head-on. He blinked frantically behind softly clouded lenses, allowing faked-surprise to make him rigid.

  


Admittedly, this wasn’t his usual undercover disguise, which meant he ran the risk of being found out as Tim Drake, public figure, except in baggy casual-wear. However, the air felt humid, suggesting a thin coating of fog over the cityscape that would accentuate the glare of lights, and he took a few other precautions; his hair was parted differently, held in place with bobby pins, his hood was up (a classic), and in addition to his slightly opaque glasses, Tim applied makeup.

It sounded like a disaster - it wasn’t all that great in execution either - but he had experience with previous disguises, had a steady hand and a more conscious awareness towards the length of marks or arch of ends when pressed against his skin. Once Tim reasoned with himself the logistics of it, it wasn’t all that bad.

His royal black liquid eyeliner was winged on both the top lid and less so on the bottom lid. He even did a few spots of dark brown pencil against his face for little beauty marks, kept in place and unbothered by some kind of setting powder ( _that_ stuff was a mystery Stephanie only exposed him to once); there was even a little brown spot on his throat, out of place yet just another way to separate him from the known public identity.

He had a rose-red glittery lipgloss, too.

Extra precaution.

  


Tim was being scrutinized though, which was leagues above being viewed as suspicious. The grip on his shoulder became tighter, enough to leave a bruise long after he would be released. A fishy scent smacked him in the face when the man spoke in a gruff voice, " **[** You can’t possibly know Li. He doesn’t associate with homos. **]** "

  


Oh.

Oh, _yay_.

  


If you thought Tim wasn't going to hit the ground running with this, then you were terribly mistaken.

  


Now with a point of reference for the man’s height, Tim put his weight to one side, arching a brow in question. " **[** What’s it to you? **]** " His tone suggested amusement as opposed to hostility. He even dared to let a smirk play on his glossed lips and immediately felt the man snatch his hand back. " **[** Whatever. He doesn’t know I’m gay, and this is all to keep people off my back. Can’t have my brothers realizing that I’m looking out for someone else. **]** "

  


Li Carnes was reported missing the previous night when he didn’t show up at the "usual hangout". Only reason Tim knew about it was because he bugged someone’s phone; only reason he didn’t stakeout the location right then and there was because, the same night, a message was sent out that they’d be moving base in case they were being tailed.

  


He was here to get information. Along with the usual “who dun it” questions - what were the Neon Hounds’ goal, what their own suspicions about the murders were, anything that could constitute as a lead - Tim also wanted to get as close as he could to the interworking system of the Neon Hounds. He wanted an origin and a reason, wanted to know what to look for in the future.

Considering how the man didn’t dismiss him, how the audio stream kept shouting about a male’s face not more than four feet in front of him, it was safe to assume that Tim’s makeshift alibi and his intent were accepted at face value. In order to get further, he’d have to talk. He'd have to sell his perspective and leave it at that. Turning his head away to focus on the street on his left, Tim kept his tone even. " **[** I don't care what you know, I just want _something_. If there's someone that knows more then I want to talk to them. **]** " The warmth at his side started to edge away, meaning he was losing his lead. " **[** You're allied with my brothers, so I'm asking for your help. **]** " He didn't come into this blind - well, technically not - and knew exactly who he was talking to.

A small group's second-in-command allied with the Innocent Devils.

By playing on these bonds between gangs, Tim knew he ran a risk of being discovered in an instant. He also knew, however, that time was of the essence. Tensions were high. If one of the Neon Hounds' own withheld valuable information from one of their allies, an ally potentially in danger by association, then a dispute could cripple the fledgling gang's reputation as well as their control. 

The second-in-command didn't ask for Tim's affiliation. He didn't dare insult someone who seemed to know just enough to be considered legitimate. Still, he kept his distance. 

 

" **[** Lysias Avenue and 14th, by the foreclosed corner store near the docks. That's where some say they last saw Li before he disappeared. No one's bothered to check because there have been signs of outsiders. **]** " Boots dragging on damp concrete, the man passed in front of Tim, mentioning under his breath, " **[** I don't know anythin' else. Got it, homo? **]** "

 

" **[** Thanks, hun~ **]** "

 

Maybe the man's pace picked up when he said that. 

Maybe Tim was trying not to laugh as he plotted his course. Lysias and 14th - about five minutes southwest at walking speed. Keeping his head up, Tim scanned for crosswalk signals and let the software do the rest of the work. He'd have a headache before too long, siphoning out the repetition, the occasionally spiking, overlapping volume tones, the cut-offs every time he shifted his gaze.

His pace was slower but he didn't bump into anyone.

 

The corner where Lysias and 14th intersected felt extremely empty. Practically a ghost town, there were only a few faint whispers of activity hinting at a busier nightlife. No cars came this far out - none with engines that didn't clunk around under the hood, at least - and Tim could distinctly hear the hum of dying streetlamps. He strode straight down the middle of the road, narrowly avoiding potholes that were likely responsible for keeping traffic out. There were a few people meandering about, a girl giggling a pitch too high to be natural as a man spoke in low tones. 

No one paid Tim any mind. Even after he stood in front of the foreclosed liquor store, looking around carefully, not a soul targeted him.

 

" _Cracked window, steel frame, cracked window, wall. Dumpster, newspaper, wall._ "

He lifted his gaze along the alley at the store's side.

" _Graffiti, shoes, glass bottle. Rat._ "

Tim scowled before shuffling over, rubbing a thumb against his temple. He was already hating this system. It was too vague, hardly worth the effort when he could just walk along the front of buildings and take pictures; he'd rather kick stuff around instead of standing there listening to the streamline voice.

 

It wasn't until he was well out of street view that the hair on the back of his neck stood up on end. The system responded: " _Leg. Leg. Three feet forward._ " Hidden. Which meant they were expecting him. He muted the glasses and listened carefully, counting the breaths and the soft drags of movement. How many surrounded him...

The person in front spoke first, "You, no business here." Broken English, an accent he didn't fully recognize. They suspected that he was an outsider.

 

" **[** I just want to know what happened to my friend, **]** " Tim attempted to remedy, speaking the Hounds' main tongue to try and dissuade them of their suspicions. " **[** I mean you no harm. **]** "

 

"We expecting you, you came."

 

" **[** How could you know I was coming? **]** "

 

"Told."

 

" **[** By one of your own. **]** "

 

"Yes."

A pause. 

"No."

 

Tim arched a brow, head perking to attention as he stared blindly ahead. " **[** No? **]** " he repeated. His shoulders went tense. Alarms rang in his head. He counted six in total, not including the new movement in a rattling fire escape overhead or footsteps in the street at his back. " **[** Someone else, then? Not just one of your brothers. **]** "

 

The underlying foundation of the case, built up by his own assumptions, all but collapsed when the person across from him said, "No, not brother. _He_ told - said pest come... You? Pest."

 

Adrenaline leaked into his bloodstream as the teen reached up the back of his sweatshirt, fingertips curling around the case at the small of his back. "Are you Hounds?" Tim finally asked, dropping the act all together. He had to start from the beginning, had to maybe remove the Hounds from the suspect list because something was horribly _wrong_.

 

"Before," was the answer. "Once. Maybe... But, no more."

 

"Li?"

 

"Li? Don't know name. You...see soon. News."

 

Despite trusting his own headcount, Tim unmuted the system and let his eyes dart over the scene ahead of him, counting at least five males. He didn't risk a look up or behind him, not wanting to allow an opening for the leader to make his move, but he knew there was more than one standing in the fire escape and maybe three at his back. Lowering his gaze, he tried to scan for weapons. Anything he needed to know about before it'd be too late.

There was a pipe, two aluminum bats. Someone even had a hunting knife. No guns - at least, none that he could "see". They really were expecting him, even going so far as to plan an armed ambush. At this point, Tim wasn't sure the second-in-command he sought out was responsible for selling him out; it seemed too orchestrated. Plus, they didn't have a clear affiliation with the Neon Hounds. They were either rogues or another group entirely, working under someone who seemed to know too much.

Snatching the collapsible bo staff at his back and extending it out in front of him, Tim raised the end. "Not Hounds," he decided. Behind him, others went stiff, preparing to go on the offensive. By no means had he anticipated a fight. He was unprepared. No gadgets, minimal protection, no solid disguise - if he let anyone get away and the encounter drag out too long, then it wouldn't be hard to piece things together. Crap. "I bet you don't wanna tell me who you work for, huh?"

The leader laughed, a short, forced sound that sounded like it had been practiced in a mirror. The blunt ends of weapons tapped against the grimy ground in response. "It a game. Game for pest yes?" he said, and Tim really didn't like the answer. 

 

He muted the glasses once more and weighed his options as quickly as he could manage;

Stay, fight, risk revealing self. 

Run, completely expose his back and potentially get chased through Chinatown without a clear direction or way to throw them off his trail.

This had been a reconnaissance mission. He had always been damn good at the secrety undercover stuff, always had a knack for extrapolating the info he needed and disappearing like a ghost in the wind. Tim planned a little bit for the danger - just not well enough. He had smoke pellets and his bo staff. He had a phone, upgraded glasses, an emergency tracker in case he _really_ needed it, and a dream.

The first option seemed to be his best bet.

 

At first. 

 

He spun the staff, relying on muscle memory for the display before he could brace it at his side. Tensing at the knee, holding his shoulders back, Tim oozed confidence. "I like games," he snarked. When he said that, up in the fire escape he heard the click of a handgun's safety disengaging - _multiple_ safeties. Handgun magazines carried between 6 and 18 rounds, and he heard maybe three guns above him. Somehow, he'd have to avoid the downpour as well as keep himself from being overrun.

To be honest, he wasn't all that surprised by this turn of events.

 

His heart jumped out of his chest in shock at the first crack, echoing like thunder that had his entire body recoiling. Given no warning, it was a shot that grazed the side of his forearm, sending Tim into motion as the others followed suit. ' _Semi-automatic, 9mm,_ ' he faintly registered. Gunfire rained down overhead and he did all he could to avoid being turned into swiss cheese from three different angles. 

  


His ears rang, sensitive and sharp like someone stuffed glass into the soft tissue of his eardrum. 

His head hurt with a migraine. 

His eyes burned as if filled with flames. 

  


Vibrations shook through every cell in his body as he moved, alerting him to the swelling presence of attackers. When he'd swing the staff with one hand, he'd unmute and mute the glasses with the other, trying to get a better grasp on who was where when his meager substitute sensors couldn't do the job.

But it was bad, and it was chaotic, and when Tim successfully managed to wind one man, tossing him over his shoulder at someone else, there was always something trying to bring him down. The teen narrowly avoided being clubbed over the head with a baseball bat, stumbling into another person who threw him out of the circle and to the mercy of the gunmen.

His legs were kicked out from underneath him by a person he hadn't sensed coming. When he began to drop, something sliced through the air where he had just been standing. Tim flipped backward to avoid a nasty fall, to give himself some space to work, but overestimated the distance between him and the wall at his back, slamming his shoulders into brick and nearly giving himself a damn concussion. Metal creaked overhead, the ladder of the fire escape dropped, nearly taking him out by unfortunate coincidence.

The clamor in his head was deafening. ' _Fuck... Fuck, fuck, fuck—_ '

 

_**BANG** _

 

Everything went silent.

The world stopped moving.

Tim pushed off the wall and kicked high with his leading leg, nailing the assailant directly opposite of him so forcefully he felt their head snap to the side before going down like a sack of hammers. A shared breath radiated among the attackers as they backed away. Nobody took a free shot on him as he stood in the center of the alley again.

He didn't have the same hesitation they did. He _recognized_ the sound.

 

A .45 caliber M1911.

Modified.

 _Personal_.

 

The fire escape shook violently when someone dropped onto it from above. Two of the gunmen screamed in panic, firing stray shots into the night in an effort to defend themselves - though it was useless. It only took two hefty, audible strikes - one for each - before they went silent, their limp bodies flung down to the earth below. Boots smacked against the asphalt soon after. A large warmth completely swallowed up the space behind him and Tim let it.

There was a laugh distorted by the hood. "You sure like gettin' into trouble, dontcha."

 

Not a question.

 

It would never be a question coming from _him_.

 

"You sure like following me around," the teen answered. For a moment, a brief, passing moment, their backs pressed together with silent acknowledgment. "Don't kill if you can help it," said Tim, smiling in spite of himself at the soft "oops" that left Jason's mouth. "I won't count the first guy, but everyone after that."

 

"Whatever you say."

 

It was easy work after the Red Hood showed up. _Easier_. There were still many people left to deal with and, thankfully, Jason wasn't shooting to kill. In a matter of minutes, everyone was subdued.

 

It wasn't until afterwards that Tim realized things were truly worse than he originally thought.

 

When he began to interrogate the person closest to him, the soft crunch of glass between molars had his blood running cold. Immediately, the man gasped for breath, spine arching as spasms racked through the muscles of his neck. He was convulsing in a matter of seconds under Tim's hands, the teen struggling to find out what was wrong - even going so far as to unmute his glasses and get a read on what had changed, but nothing was translating. His target wasn't the only one either. Somewhere far away, he heard Jason shouting curses. The sound of multiple bodies thrashing against the grimy ground was enough to make Tim sick. 

A stray limb punched into the underside of the teen's jaw, knocking him backwards but he.... He couldn't get up. After what felt like only _seconds_ , everything was quiet again.

Tim slowly pushed himself onto his feet. All he heard was the word "wall" on repeat over and over again as he stared blankly ahead, trying to understand what just transpired.

Seriously.

' _What... What the..._ '

 

Poison, definitely. And all the signs pointed to the most theatrical - yet effective - way of deliberately poisoning one's self. A matter of choice. He heard heavy boots approaching him from behind, so he put the words together; though Jason probably already knew the logistics. He had once been a Bat before, too. "Po..." It took a moment. Tim swallowed heavily. "Potassium cyanide. Glass capsule."

 

Jason sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Damn... These bastards really were crazy, huh? I checked pulses on everyone - they all took the dive."

 

This wasn't entirely new. This wasn't something so outlandish that he should've been heavily unsettled by it. Throughout history, radical groups and organizations relied on cyanide as a way of preserving secrets or avoiding capture. Even if it wasn't a modern solution, it was still one that worked. What threw Tim off was that _all_ of them were prepared to do it. What made his skin crawl was _hearing_ them suffocate and seize on the ground, flopping like dying fish at the bottom of a boat. He couldn't see the movements but his imagination filled the gaps. And it was terrible.

They weren't Hounds, they weren't Ibanescu. There was someone else in the equation, a man instilling undying loyalty in the heads of those that followed. But that was all Tim managed to learn.

 

"You hurt?"

 

The question crashed through the unease. Spinning on his heel, Tim came face to face with Jason's chest. His unmuted system said it all: " _Red. Batman. Red. Batman._ " The insignia. When he craned his neck to peer upward, the tracker responded: " _Red helmet. Red helmet. Red helmet—_ "

He muted the transmission.

 

"What?"

 

"You hurt?" Jason asked again. Leather shifted and soon Tim felt a surprisingly gentle grip on his elbow that pulled his arm up. "I got here pretty quick but there were still lots of shots before I actually arrived. You only have this one, right?"

 

He paused a moment, taken aback by the sudden concern. "No, I— I mean, yeah, just the one. Maybe bruises but nothing is dislocated or broken." It was like his tongue had grown legs of its own and was trying to run away. Forcing the words out made him sound clumsy beyond belief. "Are- Are you? Hurt?"

 

The grip tightened slightly for a moment before he was released. "Just peaches, Replacement," said Jason. 

 

They stood in silence for a few minutes, taking in what Tim had no doubt was a depressing sight. Questions ran through his head at a million miles per hour. He knew now that he needed to shed all suspicions towards the Ibanescu family and the Neon Hounds directly; while there might be some underlying correlation, there was someone else responsible. Someone who wanted to pit the two together and wage a war.

They'd need to find out who but, for now, that would be impossible until they at least ID'd the men lying dead at their feet. 

Tim felt...cold, though. Would they have died if he hadn't gone out to find Li? Would they have reacted the same way if he knew more than he did? What drove them to be so willing to die to avoid interrogation? They didn't seem to really know who Li was, they only knew that someone was coming to find out and needed to be toyed with. Did that mean the new adversary had an active hand in this like he was suspecting, or was it just a case of happenstance?

 

Would this have gone more smoothly had he been able to see?

 

The last one was something he could no longer control, but instead continued to be something he knew would bother him until his sight returned. If it ever did. 

If he hadn't lost it to Ivy those few months ago, if he hadn't allowed her to sneak up on him without even realizing it, would this all be over with?

 

Tim lowered his head, shaking out his bangs and removing the bobby pins held tight against his scalp. With a sigh, he said, "I'll organize everything I've learned and send you a comprehensive file as soon as I get home. It's not much, but it's something." He turned towards Jason then and arched his brow. "By the way, why are you even here?"

 

"Wanted to check in, see how you were doing."

 

If his brow could raise any higher, it would.

 

"Don't look at me like that, Timbers. It's true. You're the one who updated your file saying you're movin' ahead of schedule. I didn't even know you _had_ a schedule."

 

He couldn't stop his lips from curling upward deviously. "Oh? So you're regularly checking my file now?"

 

And Jason stuttered slightly. "Wha- Hey, get that dumb grin off your face," he threatened. "I'm keeping myself in the loop when you won't fill me in. It's a good thing I even bothered comin' out here or else you'd be—" The outlaw went deathly quiet, taking a cautious step forward. Eventually, he asked something that completely slipped Tim's mind. "Is that... Are you wearing lip gloss?"

 

Tim didn't respond right away.

A grave mistake.

 

"Oh, Christ, you _are_. Is this a personal choice? Is this what Timothy likes to wear when he's not working?"

 

"I AM working. Listen, it's—"

 

"Is that _eyeliner_?!" 

 

Before he could react, a pair of hands came up to his face, brushing gloved, rough knuckles against his cheekbones as the glasses were slid - carefully - off his face. Jason muttered something about needing to "Get a better look at this", and with the soft click of the hood's chin unlocking, that was basically the cherry on the cake.

A breath infused with the burn of cigarettes warmed his face, overpowering the smell of dirt, mold, and blood all at once. He could even feel the heat coming from Jason's skin. Tim tried to lean further away, concerned that he wouldn't be able to maintain his façade with the close inspection, but he didn't get very far before an arm, heavy with the weight of the hood in its grasp, draped over the top of his shoulder.

It felt like minutes passed before Jason finally spoke up, and when he did, his tone was light with amusement. "You do realize you're not even wearing the same color, right?"

 

"Huh?!"

 

A finger prodded the flesh beneath his left eye - Tim nearly leapt from his skin. "Like, the top here is black but the bottom is _green_ ," Jason explained. He tapped beneath the right eye. "And over here, you've got red and purple. How'd you even pull that off?"

 

Tim thought.... 

Tim could've _sworn_ he only used the black eyeliner. He didn't use makeup very often so it wasn't like he remembered the exact order he kept the eyeliner in; at the very least, he could've grabbed the wrong one and been consistent with it. But no. _SOMEHOW_ the teen managed to use _four_ different colors. But they- They all felt the same! There was no way he wouldn't have used just one!

 

Unless, while monitoring the messages sent by the Neon Hounds during the day, he kept misplacing the one he put down and grabbed another in its stead.

 

' _Oh my god._ '

 

Maybe he wasn't as seamless as he thought.

 

Jason let him go but was laughing loudly, head thrown back and voice bouncing across the walls of the alley like an echo. "Your face— It totally wasn't intentional! That's fuckin' _amazing_ , Replacement. You really are somethin' else. I can't believe it."

His ears were burning with embarrassment but there was no way he could save his reputation. Whatever respect Jason might've had for him before now was burned to ash with each breath of laughter. Tim wanted to die. Throwing his hands up in defeat, he turned and stalked deeper into the alley, leaving a cackling outlaw behind. He honestly would've kept walking like that had something not caught his attention.

 

Benzene.

  


Well, more specifically, the heavy, sharp scent of fresh spray paint; benzene just happened to be the one compound he identified the fastest. It made his aching head hurt a hundred times more, a throb under the temple making him feel light-headed. If the men he fought had recently vandalized something, it would provide another reason as to why they had been in the alley before him; which either meant that the one orchestrating this whole thing always knew someone would come looking for Li, or it had been a way to pass the time. Or it was unrelated. Either way, Tim couldn't tell what it was.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, he shuffled to the opposite wall and held it up in the direction of the smell. Tim knew how to get to the camera open, knew how to take the damn picture; he'd just have to hope it'd get enough of it into frame. 

 

"What'd you find?" Jason asked as he approached, helmet back on his head. "Some new artwork by the...modern...age...Picasso…" He paused somewhere on Tim's left, but... It sounded more like he had just gotten slapped in the face; his breath hitched in his throat, his steps staggered against the asphalt, crunching an empty water bottle under his heel.

Tim lowered his phone slowly, picture forgotten. "Hood?" he called. When he didn't get an answer right away, all senses went on high alert. "Hood, what's wrong? What is it?" He asked without thinking, but perhaps that ended up being to his benefit. He didn't know what Jason was seeing to get him on the defensive, he didn't know what it could've _possibly_ been.

He stepped closer. It wasn't until his belt was vibrating along his hips - evidence that he was within a little less than an arm's reach away from the outlaw - that he tried to get a reaction. "Jay..?"

 

There was a lurch - boots kicked against the concrete, and Tim leapt back just in the nick of time as an arm came swinging up. The delay, the sudden, outward response after being startled; something was wrong. 

 

Seemingly breathless, Jason finally spoke. "Can't you... Can't you read Italian..?"

 

Italian. The graffiti was comprised of written words, conveying a message at least one of them could understand. "No? Jason, what is it?"

 

" _Pagliaccio_ … _Viola_..."

  


\+ + 

  


The following morning, Tim received a message from Jason.

No call. 

No context.

 

_**\--Be back soon--** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: we're gonna be taking a visit with Jason that might be a wee bit self indulgent. Look forward to it~
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the update, lemme know your thoughts on this one (or theories? muweheheheh ',:3)


	10. "This Thing Called Self-Care"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a spur of the moment, Jason suddenly dips from Gotham, thrown off by a recent finding in his case. With his mind running rampant, who wouldn't want to share a beer in Mazatlán with your best friend?
> 
> Meanwhile - Roy's got ten dollars and a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya boi really be needing this. It's self-indulgent but that's okay.
> 
> This kinda sucks because it feels a little awkward, but I got everything I wanted into it. Will edit later but I just wanted to update.
> 
> Also, the location they're at? Been there. Was lovely.
> 
>  
> 
> I will do my best to get better at description and not rush. Again, it's hard as hell to adequately switch between sight and no sight.
> 
>  
> 
> Please enjoy.

The gate terminal was quiet, pierced only by the occasional grunt of someone shifting in their seat. Cheap coffee grounds burned in the air. Somewhere further down the hall was a McDonalds.

Either Roy showed or he didn't. The raven simply couldn't account for the archer's schedule every minute of every day - what was he? A fuckin' babysitter? No, but when his phone buzzed sharply against his thigh seconds after he sent a text, Jason knew what to at least expect.

The conversation at five in the morning was simple.

 

**\--Mazatlán. Cruise terminal. Eight hours--**

 

**_\--Gotcha--_ **

 

Same-day one-way flights out of Gotham International was upwards of five hundred dollars, but Jason flew coach and it was still early in the morning. And no one from _Gotham_ was too keen on going to a tourist spot during a work day. He had nothing on him except for a cheap black backpack he got for ten bucks at a Walmart near the safe house. In it was a wallet - he had a credit card and a fake ID, maybe some leftover cash from his last trip to Mexico - a pair of swim trunks, flip flops, a fake police badge (how else was he supposed to legally bring a gun on board in his carry-on? He didn't want to deal with the logistics of smuggling firearms right now), his passport (also fake), a National Geographic magazine on global climate change, and 70 SPF sunblock for Roy's pasty ass. 

So far, American Airlines wasn't having any delays. In just shy of twenty minutes, the raven would board a seven hour flight along with a few business with connectors elsewhere and like, three frat pricks that weren't ready to accept that spring break was almost over. The latter was, as he expected, utterly trashed. So at least they were quiet.

 

Jason didn't want to think about anything for as long as he could. He did everything to distract himself; from listening in on a sports podcast to humming catchy pop music that would make Dick dance on a countertop, _anything_ that could hold his attention was good enough for him. 

Tension was building in his core, ticking away like a time bomb. Each movement in his peripherals jarred the explosive, each sound that didn't come from his earbuds had him sliding to the edge of his padded seat. By the time they were boarding, shuffling down the temporary umbilical in a neat line, Jason couldn't stop his fingers from trembling. He was the first to buckle in once he found his seat. The first to buy airplane Wi-Fi and the first to put his phone on airplane mode.

Well, only after he texted Tim.

 

**\--Be back soon--**

 

"Soon" was a rough estimate. Like, _really_ rough. Time was of the essence in the ongoing case, but he just... Couldn't stand to be in the same smoggy horizon. Not right now at least. He didn't know how long he'd be out of country for; this whole "method" of coping was new to him.

Deep down, Jason was sure he was overreacting.

He must've been. 

He _needed_ to be.

His paranoia kept him from sleeping when he got home after he found Tim in Chinatown. Jason left all the lights on for two hours, pacing back and forth and tiring himself out like a wolf trapped in a cage. He didn't dare burn out entirely, however. Didn't risk taking a shower or exposing his back to the door for more than three seconds. The static of the world swelled into a cacophony of sheer chaos until Jason was sure he was about to shoot the next shadow that moved.

It felt like he was being followed from the moment he left the safe house until he arrived at the airport parking lot. Gunmetal eyes were watching him. The only time Jason could breathe easy was when he made it past TSA; they were Gothamites, they knew what to look out for. On board, though? Yeah, he forgot how to function. His row-buddy was a sweet looking old woman with a little lavender beret but he didn't dare nap next to her. He'd seen a similar trick before.

 

Once airborne, every possible scenario rushed through his head. It overpowered the drone of the talk show, overpowered the gleam of aisle lights and reflections bouncing off windows. There were far too many possibilities for the plane to crash or experience engine failure. And he _hated_ it.

Even so, Jason refused to give the haunting a name or a face. He had the upper hand over his own thoughts - for once - and he was going to ride the buffer until kingdom come. Until he saw Roy's face and could feel mildly safe.

 

Crossing time zones and not sleeping a wink even when the old woman passed out with her mouth open, eventually the outlaw ended up streaming a radio show that aired from Sacramento, California. He heard it while busting a really BIG sex trafficking ring in the state capital a year ago. It was entertaining, and it was _distracting_. It was even enough to pass the time without him noticing.

 

And then he was landing.

  


\+ 

  


There were about two ships docked by the terminal - Princess and Carnival, bargain sellers. Even at 10:30 in the morning, the streets were flooded with tourists from all walks of life, taxi drivers, scammers, and cheap souvenir vendors. Mostly Americans in parties of two or six, either families on vacation extended vacation or couples on their all-inclusive honeymoon.

The sun tore its way through the cloud cover, heat radiated off the ground in waves. Jason changed his pants in the airport before getting into a cab, and donned his convenience store sunglasses. He had on a hat and jacket, hands tucked deep in his pockets as he surveyed the crowds from his place against a stone wall. 

At 10:47 EXACTLY, he saw the slate gray hat. That stupid, stupid hat. Roy came from directly ahead of him, crossing lanes of traffic like they were nothing and shutting down pesky vendors that tried to sell him something with his perfect accent. They didn't expect the whiter-than-snow American to be able to speak such good Spanish. It was enough to get a smile out of Jason - just a crack.

Roy didn't really wait around. He stopped in front of the younger male, grinned like an idiot, and tightly attached his hand to Jason's shoulder. "Where to, _mi amigo_?" he asked. It was like it hadn't been over nine months since they last saw each other. It was more like they had been planning this trip for weeks.

"I know this restaurant that's kinda outta the way," was Jason's response before taking the lead. "Killer view, cheap beer and average food. They've got good fuckin' guac though."

 

"Ooh, sign me up."

 

Not once during the walk down the avenue, industrial on one side and residential on the other, did Roy remove his hand from Jason's person. Even when a family of five was coming the other way, all the archer did was step behind him, keeping an awkward grip that made a few small children giggle at the sight. But Jason didn't mind at _all_. In fact, it brought comfort he never voiced needing. When they reached the end of the avenue, stood on the tip of a dock, Roy bought them tickets onto a little dinghy that would take them across the inlet to Stone Island. They continued in companionable silence.

Kids, teens, and adults alike flooded the beach in their multicolored swimsuits. It wasn't the usual tourist spot, so crowds were small. Manageable. Vendors weaved between them all, trying to lure tourists into their establishments with promises of cheap drinks and special deals on the seafood of the day. There was a guy selling sunhats and a guy selling bracelets woven with string upon request. There was a very broad woman - could've been a man for all he knew - that locked eyes with the duo as they approached _Puesta de Sol_. In her deep voice, she grabbed two flimsy chairs and set them up at a table beneath an umbrella. " _Hola, mis amigos._ You look like you could use a beer - am I wrong?"

 

Jason took off his hat and sunglasses, offering a brief smile. "You got it."

 

"Oof…" She gave him a good look-over, curling coarse black hair around her finger. " **[** Thank you God for this hot piece of ass that just walked up to me... **]** "

 

Roy looked personally affronted, shoving harshly into the raven's face and pointing at his own chest. He spoke LOUDLY over Jason's sputtering laughter. " **[** What about me?! I've got a nice ass, too. I do _squats_ dammit! **]** "

The waitress looked a little surprised by the sudden Spanish but she was clearly a quick cat. " **[** Too short, boy. Too pale. Your friend is clearly a strong type of man. I'll bet he can use you as weights. **]** "

 

" **[** He's like an INCH taller! An' there's no way he's gonna— **]** " He must have seen Jason approaching in his peripherals because he caught on _fast_ when the raven moved through the soft sand. Whirling in place, Roy was giving him a menacing middle-finger salute. "Take one more step and I'm gonna scream, Jay. Don't test me on this."

Their waitress was laughing as she waited for the rowdiness to settle, finally asking what they wanted to start with once Jason spilled into the seat most protected from the sun. Roy dug through his pocket. "We'll probably want a menu too, but can we get a bucket of Modelo?"

 

"Fifteen?"

 

"Er… Sure, bucket of fifteen. Can we actually do a split - five Modelo, five Corona, five Pacifico?"

 

"Limes? Tajin?"

 

"Yeah, please."

 

Roy didn't immediately sit after the waitress left them behind. He was wearing a plain white tank top, letting the sun beat down on his pale, freckled shoulders. They were going to burn to a crisp before noon at that rate. As Jason dug through his backpack and drew out the sunblock, he couldn't help but realize that Roy's usual sleepwear in the winter/spring was a tank top.

Damn.

Tossing the sunblock up over the table, Jason didn't lift his head right away. Instead, he looked out at a softly churning Pacific coastline. "Sorry, man," he said after a while, "for callin' you out here all of a sudden."

The whitecaps were scattered far along the horizon like a small mountain range. Even with the distance, he could still see the surf crashing against the base of Isla Cardones. The sea remained shallow even as far out as a few hundred meters, gaged by the dad standing far from the shore with water lapping at his sternum, his son high on his shoulders. It really was a nice place. A good, friendly vacation spot. Paranoia aside, he'd even dare to call it _safe_.

 

Eventually, the redhead sat in his chair, slathering an obscenely thick coat of sunblock over his shins like it was icing. He dismissed Jason with a shrug. "Don't sweat it, Jay. Ain't nothing wrong with takin' a break." Offering a crooked smile, Roy added, "Besides, we can make this guy time. Bro time. Bro time by the brocean."

 

Jason chuckled. "That's so damn stupid."

 

"It shouldn't be. I was thinking of puns the whole flight over."

 

Eventually the waitress - Alejandra was her name - returned with a tin pail filled with ice and bottles of beer in one hand, a plate of fresh tortilla chips and guacamole in the other, and the menus tucked under her arm. When Jason gave her a quizzical look, she merely winked in response. "Free chips," she said. "Nothing wrong with that." She recommended the seafood platter and the house-made Michelada before breaking away to rope in a family of three to her establishment.

Roy took the Modelo first. It was a special edition bottle, small and ornamented with more gold foil than usual. He squished a lime down through the neck, watching it foam up for a moment before taking a sip. This would likely be one of his only drinks of the day; he knew where to stop. Jason, meanwhile, didn't partake right away.

He kind of couldn't. And Roy seemed to notice. He even noticed the way Jason was staring so intently at the plate of chips and guac that he himself had raved about. Without calling attention to it - to _anything_ \- the archer grabbed one chip from the top of the pile, another from the middle and a final one from the bottom, then scooped hearty helpings of guacamole into the curve of the chip. 

Jason watched every bite and every nibble, though part of him almost had him smacking the snack from Roy's hand.

 

"They're safe," was all Roy offered, and suddenly it was as if the weight of an anchor vanished from the younger's chest. He could finally breathe. The tension faded completely. His paranoia was certainly getting the better of him but Roy wasn't going to ask questions. Which was fine.

  


\+ 

  


By 3 o'clock, the two men had taken multiple turns dipping into the cold, refreshing ocean and sunbathing in the sand. All the while, Alejandra kept them well-stocked. There was always a fresh plate of lime wedges when they blinked, an occasional bottle of water, fresh guac and chips when the supply got low. She cracked jokes, beckoned some of the vendors over - _especially_ the one with the damn iguana on a leash, and the guy with the rolling cart of fruit - and made fun of the Americans who rented the ATVs, laughed at how they suddenly stopped and started, lurching forward over the handlebars each go. By the time they ordered the seafood platter, Jason finally felt relaxed enough to not need to see someone try it first. 

He almost felt good.

Over the course of the afternoon, Roy kept moving his chair closer and closer, never mentioning why. Which, honestly, was pretty typical Roy Harper-behavior. Soon enough they were side-by-side, knees knocked together and voices low in conversation. They were on their second bucket, this time with ten bottles split evenly between Corona and Pacifico. 

 

Jason dangled the dark bottle between his fingers, watching with heavily lulled eyes as condensation rolled over the glass and pittered against the sand, clotting like blood before it would eventually be absorbed by the grains. He managed to nap for ten minutes - essentially a cat nap - but that was good enough for now. Swinging the bottle back and forth for a moment, he brought it up to his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roy watching him, a glob of fresh salsa smudged on his bottom lip. 

Again, he knew Roy wasn't going to ask questions unless it was required. Roy took his time, would let Jason or whoever he was with start the conversation first before offering his two cents on the matter. He understood a lot about how Jason of all people responded to things. He also understood that this development was the result of something else; either Jason had been struggling for a while and decided he wanted a self-care day (which would've only made sense had they met at their island in the South Pacific), or this was new.

 

Burying his toes in the sand, pressing his back up against his shirt draped over the chair, the raven brought his head back with a sigh. "I might've jumped the gun," offered Jason. Which, obviously, was the most vague thing he could've possibly said. Roy muttered something akin to 'no shit' under his breath but didn't push. "It's been really quiet, y'know? Things aren't as bad as they used to be."

 

"In what way? Bats or...or you?"

 

"Both. Bats, though. Kinda." Jason cleared his throat. "No one's tryna blame me for killing people, though Dickie bird tried, like two, three weeks ago. And he was right but that's beside the point. And Big Daddy Bats hasn't come hunting me down for no reason. I successfully worked alongside _three_ of them."

 

Roy whistled sharply, sounding impressed in a way that Jason felt in his soul.

 

Talking became easier with the soft comments and reactions in the background. It proved that he wasn't alone, talking himself stir-crazy because he internalized everything regarding... _that_. "I'm working with the Replacement right now, too. Sought him out, told him I needed his help—"

 

The exhale of breath that followed wasn't an act. Roy was legitimately impressed this time.

 

"—and he agreed. This is the second time we're collaborating in the span of a month, Roy. Like, it's a _real_ thing. That little freak likely won't let Bruce get anywhere near our case unless it was forced outta him, so he's good security. My case gets managed, Bruce doesn't find out? That's a win-win."

When Jason paused to sort out the second half of his thoughts, to put into words the very reason why he called Roy out to a city in Mexico, the redhead nodded thoughtfully, hand pressed to his chin. "That's pretty bird, right?" he asked. "That kid is crazy. He kinda reminds me of a leopard - you ever seen those documentaries? They don't move unless your back is to them. Patient monsters. They look nice and sleek, but they're dangerous if you piss 'em off."

For a moment, every fiber in the raven's body wanted to agree. He could almost even envision Tim having the stride of a leopard, spotted and mysterious and quick to vanish from sight but, frankly, the illusion was ruined when he remembered the mismatched eyeliner less than twenty-four hours prior. Jason stifled his laugh behind a swig of Pacifico, letting the bitter, acidic burn of alcohol fill his mouth. Only after he swallowed did his brow arch, gaze slightly narrowed. "'Pretty bird'?" he repeated, allowing his concerns to sit in stasis for a moment.

 

"Yeah." Roy felt no shame in his previous claim, stretching in his chair and adjusting to unstick his skin from the plastic. "You're all hot. Dick is the fuzzy-wuzzy, would probably make a good dad and be a romantic partner kind of hot - chicks dig that shit. You're _obviously_ the bad boy type."

 

"Obviously."

 

"I mean, shit, with the motorcycle and the leather and those damn bedroom eyes? You could probably take me AND Alejandra home if you wanted."

 

Jason's face scrunched tightly.

 

"Replacement? _Tim_?" Roy sighed, reaching for what was left of their tortillas and folding it into triangles. "I obviously don't know the kid that well, but I've at least seen him before. You and Dick have your "things", and it's obvious that all the girls are cute, but Tim just seems...pretty. Pretty boy with a silver spoon, right? He's nice to look at. Not _my_ thing, but I get the appeal."

 

This was....a weird conversation. And at the same time Jason had to agree. If even just for a moment, he could ignore the unease and the history and at least admit that, from what he _remembered_ , Tim was pretty. He shrugged. "I saw him up close last night without the leather condom on his head. It was dark, couldn't see at all that well, but he's nice lookin' enough."

 

"Ergo, pretty bird."

 

"He's neurotic as fuck and a control freak just like Bats. "Pretty" isn't gonna do shit for him - the damn kid never smiles."

 

Jason shook his head then, turning his attention towards the sea. It must've been after four by then. The sun was gradually beginning to sink down into the horizon, splashing the waves and sky with long strokes of orange, pink, and even hints of red. He didn't want the night to come while his paranoia was still unhindered. He didn't want to let his brain run away without him, leaving him to the mercy of old thoughts.

"Last night was...bad, I think," was what Jason continued with. He felt Roy press a knee more strongly against his own, a sign of reassurance. "Saw something- Well, _read_ something that got me all kinds of fucked up. You don't know Italian, right?"

 

Roy's tone was soft, careful. "Bro. I barely managed to learn Spanish."

 

"Yeah, well, Tim doesn't either for some reason - he probably won't get it. So, only I was able to see it, and translate it, and completely let it bend me over and ream me up the ass." Jason couldn't keep a growl from slipping past his teeth, slamming his now-empty bottle down on the flimsy table. The force was so strong that one of the legs nearly buckled completely. It would've toppled had it not been for the long umbrella through the middle. 

Shaking his head, trying to keep his mind off the growing shadows littering the beach and the bright green and purple spray-painted graffiti stamped over his memory, Jason felt stuck. Like being in the chair was dangerous. Like having some kind of contact with another human being was going to make his skin melt. Yet he endured. He endured because _fuck it_ , he needed to. He still had a leg-up on his brain, he still had control of his responses.

"It read _Pagliaccio Viola_ , which translates to Purple Clown."

 

There was suddenly a sharp, tight, tangible grip on his bicep.

 

"Yeah, well..." The raven laughed bitterly under his breath. "I figured I had the right to get ahead of myself."

  


\+ + 

  


Two days passed without either male making any mention about _Pagliaccio Viola_. They spent two nights on Stone Island, never drifting too far from Alejandra's restaurant or their own hotel room. It was comfortable enough. At least, Jason thought it was. Roy let him have his space and would drift closer whenever it seemed like the raven was going to snap. 

Sure, he got messages. Updates. Tim sent him an updated file every morning at 2:00am - 4:00am Gotham time - and it seemed like nothing was changing beyond his control. He didn't pressure Jason to respond, didn't make any comments in the footnotes suggesting he should come back. Instead, it was simply Tim's way of keeping him in the loop even while on an impromptu break.

He even got a message from Barbara on the second night. By no means did Jason ever use the communal network, but Barbara seemed to not be repulsed at the mention of him. She, not knowing he was out of town, advised him to be careful of a new costumed individual in Gotham. They seemed to be a good guy yet didn't make too much of a ruckus; only reason she mentioned them was because they wore orange and yellow colors. Like a traffic cone.

No name, no known motive. They were keeping clear of obvious patrol routes. They stayed out of Crime Alley.

Supposedly they were a meta but Jason didn't know about all that.

 

He didn't feel bad anymore. Not really. Roy never called attention to the paranoia, never really confirmed or denied his suspicions, but that was confirmation enough. The archer had been doing research every few hours, trying to wrap up the loose ends and come to a conclusion that Jason could swallow. If there was an actual excuse for him to be worried, Roy would've said something already.

The reason Jason never did it himself was because he didn't _want_ to be right. He didn't want to be provoked by old headlines or images that could send him into a frenzy. The fact that this happened after Jason risked _thinking_ in the privacy of his own mind that everything was going smoothly was what made it worse. Normally, he would internalize it, face it head on and show no fear because fear would break him. Weaken him. He wasn't actually afraid, either, it was a moment of vulnerability and contentment that had him shaken to the core. Things could go wrong and they would end up hurting like hell.  
So long as someone he could trust was looking into it, maybe he could breathe.

 

And breathe he did when Roy asked for the details over breakfast. Wiping chorizo grease off his fingers, Jason leaned back in his seat. The hotel's dining room was nothing fancy - like a Best Western or Motel 6 with Mexican-themed breakfast options to choose from - and the patrons were few and far between. The dark terracotta tile was glossed under his flip flop, sealed and patterned with white putty. He could smell fresh fruit, hear the soft rush of the ocean beyond the walls.

The outlaw spared the little details and went straight to what needed to be known. "The guys all offed themselves with potassium cyanide, like a damn James Bond trope," said Jason. "No one was wearing purple, no one had scarred mouths or white skin or green hair. They were just... _guys_. The paint was fresh at the time, but there were no traces of it on their clothes."

Chewing on a piece of cut pineapple, Roy nodded his head, foot bouncing against the floor almost rhythmically. "And before that you've never encountered someone that would look like a goon?" he asked.

 

"Nope. All I can think of is that there are a lot more psychos than usual, but none that strike me as that type."

 

"Cool."

 

No somber expression, no furrowed brow, no nervous twitches in the hands. Jason smirked and leaned against the table. "Well, doc? What's the verdict?"

 

Roy promptly discarded the pineapple rind on his empty plate. He started prattling off a list, counting on his fingers one by one, "Bats obviously hasn't noticed anything, the others haven't seen it, Barbara doesn't know anything - and she's mutha fuckin' _Barbara_ \- and little mini detective didn't find anything unnerving like you did." The archer grinned and extended his free hand out over the table, fist closed tightly. "No news is good news, Jay, buddy ol' pal. You're okay."

The outlaw reached to meet him halfway, bumping their knuckles together. His chest felt lighter, his head stopped hurting. It was as if a veil had lifted. Jason _knew_ there was no way he could've been right; the last appearance was well over a year ago, and a body turned up in the bay after a trap on Amusement Mile went horribly wrong. Batman had been at the scene of the crime, battered and bruised from whatever was planned for him, and he was the one to help identify the body - solely on the injuries he knew the madman had sustained before vanishing.

Obviously, Batman didn't give 100% confirmation. He merely suggested that there was a high probability that the body found was _the_ body.

Jason couldn't disapprove of the judgement call because, like most of the Bats already knew, the bastard had a knack for returning.

 

"A coincidence probably," Roy reassured him, standing up and digging around in his pockets for something. "Everyone likes to steal the moniker for prestige. Street cred. That's like, the thing with Gotham's baddies. Even you did!"

 

A fair enough point. Finishing his coffee, Jason followed Roy's example, raising his brow in question as they began to head towards the beach again. A third day of rest and relaxation, but the older male was pulling out a crumpled, 200 peso bill. Taking it by the ends and snapping it out to full length twice, he grinned. "Let's go be tourists for a while. I wanna buy the most _ridiculous_ souvenir I can."

In a single, slick movement, the men looked towards a sunhat guy parading through the sand. One of many potential targets. Jason shook his head but did not hesitate to charge after his friend. This was going to be terrible and he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Take two - except this time Jason isn't worried about _his_ predicament anymore, only things might be getting a wee bit out of hand.
> 
> Again, will try to edit this better. Will re-read it after finals and see what I can make from it.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed it.


	11. "But Maybe I'm Wrong"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to figure out what's going on with the rivaling crime groups - and the _Pagliaccio Viola_. Someone else has apparently had a hand in getting the problem solved, a new "hero", but that won't be enough. When the opportunity to learn about the puppet master presents itself, Jason ends up seeing something he doesn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally exhausted.  
> Ya boi has been super depressed. School is Big lame. Working graveyards.
> 
> Yeehaw.
> 
> I think I've figured out the timeline for this story, including the events and the other big plot devices. We're gonna start getting there, bit by bit
> 
> Enjoy this big chapter - y'all earned it for being so patient. Hope you like it :)
> 
>  
> 
> Note: if Pagliaccio Viola is italicized, it's more so referring to the identity/concept. If it's not italicized, it's strictly the person. Might change it back to both being italicized because it's a different language - I'm a bit on the fence.

The flight back to Gotham was smooth as silk. No turbulence, no strange characters that set off alarms. Just Roy at his side, hat pulled over his eyes and mouth hanging open while he slept. They ended up spending the majority of the day around the Mazatlán cruise terminals before finally boarding a flight back to the States. It was nice having someone with him for the return journey; even if Roy was going to borrow one of the raven's cars to get home, Jason figured it was a fair trade.

They walked side by side through the parking lot, the sounds of a busy overpass cueing them in on the fact that the city had awoken. It was roughly seven o'clock.

Parting ways at a safehouse - by god, not the most recent one - Jason finally sent a text to Tim. As he waited for a response, the outlaw donned his armor and gear, polishing the forehead of his helmet with a sleeve. He didn't feel bothered by the shadows along the walls. He didn't feel startled by his reflection in a cracked mirror. He felt comfortable knowing his door was locked, and that he wouldn't be snuck up on that easily. Roy already reassured him that his worries were unnecessary, so maybe the impromptu trip was actually a decent coping mechanism.  
He'd consider it again.

 

After Tim texted back.

 

Which he didn't.

 

Checking up on the girls of Crime Alley and getting his name back on the streets, Jason hurried over to the teen's apartment in Chinatown, crossing the city in leaps and bounds. What he expected to see was at least a light on when he arrived, or at least the dim glow of a monitor, but the apartment was just as dark as the night itself. Breaking in ended up being surprisingly easy - already a concern.

There were like... _four different fucking bags_ scattered across the living room. Blankets were bunched and laid haphazardly wherever there was open space. Empty mugs in the most random of places was, at the end of the day, not the most unexpected thing, but never before had Jason seen Tim leave his cups knocked over. He noticed two pairs of pants lying on the floor; one of them had the biggest rip along the waist, discarded next to the kitchen island where a cabinet remained open. Jason couldn't keep from snorting when he saw the break in the wood paneling along the side or the torn denim hanging off the cabinet's handle.

Conclusion: Somehow, a certain someone must've gotten his belt loop caught after standing up, didn't realize it, then slipped _dramatically_ and swung into the side of the island. Hard. It wasn't difficult to visualize the frustration Tim had when yanking the jeans off before leaving them to collect dust. The poor bastard.

But that poor bastard was still nowhere to be found. And he still never answered his phone.

 

Jason stood by the window with his legs crossed at the ankle. He checked their shared files, looking for the last recorded update - _'Just now..?_ ' Shaking his head and tucking away his phone after typing something along the bottom of the most recent note, the outlaw switched to his private comm link. Like a responsible house guest, Jason took care to secure the window behind him when he left. He was in the middle of passing one of the many high-rises scattered through Gotham not even two minutes later when the line went active.

"Did you—" Tim sounded beside himself. "Did you just write, 'Hey bitchboy I'm home' in the middle of my investigation notes?!"

 

"That was fast. Didja miss me?"

 

"Like hell I did."

 

Jason tucked into a roll across the nearest rooftop - an apartment complex with a leaking water tower - before laughing softly into the mic. "You did. I can tell - why else would you have reached out to me so soon afterwards?" He didn't give Tim a chance to respond, riding the high of absolutely messing him. "Anyways, where are you? I stopped by your apartment but you weren't home."

There was some distant shuffling, a few random clicks of a keyboard. "I'm, uh....at the Penthouse."

 

He couldn't remember the last time he visited the Penthouse. Certainly not in his recent memory... It was that sort of safe space for any of the Bats to crash, located at the top of the Wayne Foundation skyscraper. Two whole stories and private access to the rooftop, with a sneaky elevator to an underground bunker; it's no Cave, but it served its purpose well enough. On paper at least.

Though, as far as he knew, Tim didn't have a need to be there. "What the fuck for?" he ended up asking, back on course for the skyscraper.

 

"Alfred's been telling me to come by like every other day to pick up stuff. Started the day you left."

 

"Weird.."

 

Conversation died but neither closed their respective line. Living, breathing white noise filled Jason's ears, so tight in his skull and intimate that it drowned out the city below him. He never _said_ he was coming, which would explain why the rooftop entrance was locked. Still, Tim must've known somehow, because the alarm system was deactivated. Jason picked the lock with ease before stepping into the stairwell. 

He rushed down the steps, taking two at a time until he was in the Penthouse's open floor plan with nothing but windows covering the far wall. Gotham stretched for miles - a comfortable sight when one has spent most of their time perched on gargoyles - however, Jason switched his focus to the teen sat with his back to him, hunched over the bar with an open Tupperware in front of their face.

Actually, in the pitch black darkness of the Penthouse, the only reason Jason saw him to begin with - aside from the night vision capabilities of his helmet - was from the blue glow of a computer screen. The raven's back was outlined by the city lights beaming through large windows. He sat in the dark like it was nothing, not paying any mind to the sounds around him or the newcomer. Not right away.

 

With that final step onto hardwood, Tim perked up. He didn't turn around or break away from whatever he was eating, but he acknowledged the other. "There are loads of premade meals in the fridge," offered Tim. "Apparently they're supposed to be eaten cold, so help yourself."

 

"They've probably been there for weeks," Jason said, still he disengaged the clasps on the hood, walking towards the closest end table and lamp in sight. If Alfred was having someone come and take the food, then it had to be fresh. A literal blessing, really, because he was sick and tired of cheap restaurant cooking. "Turn some fuckin' lights on, Replacement. You'll kill your eyes—" He could smell _something_. Something undoubtedly good. "Whatcha got there?"

 

The teen shrugged. He said something under his breath about it tasting like egg salad, focusing more so on the laptop situated on his right than anything else. As Jason approached, flicking on lights as he went, he noticed a few things right then and there.

First of all, Tim looked like he recently got off work, blazer loose around his shoulders and the top two button of his collared shirt undone. This exposed a very _nasty_ looking bruise swelling along the collarbone, green and clearly healing but it looked like it hurt. Secondly, he had those fake glasses from their last encounter hooked on the breast pocket of his shirt. 

Thirdly - this dumbass was eating homemade egg salad straight out of a plastic container and had the audacity to say it "tasted _like_ egg salad". The biggest thing, however, was his distant gaze fixed to the monitor. His laptop was playing four different video streams from four different locations, but the picture quality looked compressed under an overlay of text - small, low opacity, and such an obscure color that Jason couldn't easily read it. No way could it have been easy on the eyes. Nonetheless, Tim appeared dedicated, seldom blinking or diverting his attention elsewhere.

 

Stalking over to the fridge, Jason almost cried when he saw the inside out ravioli tucked away in the corner. Normally he wouldn't dare to eat it cold as a first instinct but, hey, Alfred's recommendations. And it was home cooking so he really couldn't complain. He dug through the drawers for a fork and popped off the lid with his thumb, leaning all his weight against the counter. He was mid-bite when the realization struck him: This was _weird_.

 

He didn't have an additional domino. His helmet was dropped somewhere on the couch. Tim didn't have the cowl or a hood, or glasses resting on the bridge of his nose to hide his face. One wore civvies and the other wore armor, not even five feet apart. They didn't say a word but it was an amicable silence. Just...comfortable company. ' _What the fuck..._ ' Jason thought, brow furrowing as he glanced out the window for a moment. In the end, his focus still rubber banded back to its original place. 

It didn't help that Roy had been right. Like, he knew this already - hell, he even agreed at the time - but Tim was pretty. Pretty like the Vatican but just normal enough to make it feel right walking in with mud your boots. Pretty like delicate china with stainless steel trim. Modern yet refined. He must've been staring because Tim suddenly shifted, head coming up slowly. 

Tim didn't meet his eyes right away, gaze just barely skimming the island between them. "You good?"

 

"Good? Why wouldn't I be good?"

 

Their eyes met but.... No, they definitely met. It just felt weird. 

 

"You left suddenly. I'm not going to ask what happened—" The teen's brow twitched when something changed on the screen, but he didn't spare it another look. "—but I want to make sure you can do the job now that you're back. If not, I'll do it myself."

 

Jason scoffed and shook his head, saying, "I'm peaches, Timbo. Just peaches. What's next?"

 

"Haven't you been reading the files?"

 

"Yeah, but maybe I like listenin' to you talk."

 

Tim rolled his eyes. He picked up the Tupperware lid by his left hand and ran his fingers over the edges, flipping it a few times before placing it back on the container itself. It seemed like he was taking his time with everything, slow and meticulous with every action. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jason felt suspicion creeping around the corner. Questions of why, and what was going on, but he didn't voice them.

In the end, the younger spoke first. He talked about what his few days of investigation and stakeouts turned up. He tried to trace _Pagliaccio Viola_ \- the name made Jason tense, sure, but it passed - and didn't find anything worth mentioning outside of other graffiti tags that popped up across Gotham. The Ibanescu have been getting more violent, which ended up doing them a disservice. A few of their prostitution rings were revealed because of the sudden aggression, as well as one of their trafficking operations purely by association.

Unconsciously, Tim reached to grip at his shoulder, and that was evidence enough as to _who_ sealed the deal.

On to the Neon Hounds, it would appear that they had a bigger hand in prostitution than it seemed. But they were fighting for more territory for their drugs, crossing far beyond their respective boundaries and those of their allies. As if they were desperate. Or trying to prove a point.

 

Jason nodded as he put away their leftovers, thumbing the rubber trim on the fridge door almost thoughtfully. "Damn, Replacement," he mused, "that's good work for just a few days."

 

The teen gave a small hum of disinterest but he saw the proud smile on his face. Tim rubbed the back of his neck, twisted in his seat to face the bedrooms, before continuing, "I think we should expect a conclusion soon. Tonight. Maybe."

 

"How so?" Jason came around the counter to stand by the couch, still within Tim's line of sight as he crossed his arms. He sat on the sofa back, raising a brow in question. "There's no way this thing is gonna blow over that soon - I've done this too many times to be that stupid."

 

Tim was shaking his head well before the outlaw finished his statement. "I'm talking about _this_ , with the Hounds," he insisted. "You said it yourself, right? Central Gotham is where the bodies of missing members wound up, mutilated and branded, kicking the whole thing off. Ibanescu and the Hounds have been drifting into the heart bit by bit. Even before I did my first undercover recon—"

 

"First? You put on mismatched eyeliner a second time?"

 

"—this was how it was always going to end up." Tim wistfully ignored him. "If this _Pagliaccio Viola_ is a group, they're trying to get those two to destroy themselves and the others they're associated with to fill in the blanks themselves. And if it's one guy..."

Jason swallowed thickly, fists clenching around the leather of his jacket.

"Grammatically, Latin-based languages have a distinguishable plural form. So while I may not be able to speak Italian, I can at least be confident that it's not written like a group name. This _Pagliaccio Viola_ might be orchestrating a take-over. This might've been going on longer than you know. It's definitely a lot more convoluted than it should be for something so predictable. It doesn't make sense."

 

So, that was something they both agreed on. The outlaw shook his head, his breath weighing heavily in his lungs like lead. "Then, Central Gotham," decided Jason. "How do we know where to look? Is this take-over happening tonight? Can't I catch ONE night of regular crime?"

 

The smile that briefly flickered over Tim's face - the teen still not making an effort to look his way - felt comforting, in a way. Under his breath but just loud enough that Jason could hear, he said, "Where's your sense of adventure, Jay?"

 

"Hehe.. C'mon. You still haven't answered my questions."

 

"The Hounds have been talking about raiding an Ibanescu base," came the response, "but the tag I've got on Ibanescu is saying they're going to burn the Hounds' most recent location down to the ground. They're being careful and not mentioning an exact address but I've triangulated the general area with context clues. _If_ I'm right, it's the same location." Finally, Tim looked at Jason, brow furrowed. "It feels like a setup, but one of the ones that doesn't have an obvious motivation. You can't just tell me a big-ass crime group is about to run Gotham overnight and no one but us - no one but _you_ \- managed to catch it."

 

He had a point. If it really was so big as to wipe out Ibanescu, the Hounds, and their affiliates, _Jason_ of all people wouldn't be working on the case. In fact, it would have to involve every single Bat. This couldn't be something more than aspirations too big for one's abilities; eyes bigger than the stomach kind of deal. Roy had calmed his fears of _Pagliaccio Viola's_ name, but now Tim was poking at the roots of the case with a cattle prod, singing and burning the edges until they became frayed beyond repair. 

It triggered paranoia. It triggered anxiety. It pushed all of his buttons in one fell swoop.

But, for now, he could ignore it. Rolling his shoulders, Jason sighed. "Well?" he asked. "What are we waiting for? Do you need to get back to your apartment and change?"

 

Tim shook his head, gesturing loosely towards the far hall. There was a duffle bag hidden in the darkness, marked by white trim along the ends. "These visits were becoming such a habit that I brought the suit with me today." He hopped off the barstool and began to trod over, once again taking his time.

 

"Get to it then, Timmy," the outlaw barked, clapping his hands together like a high school basketball coach. "We're burning moonlight." When Tim started to drag the duffle bag towards the other bedroom - the Master likely being reserved for Bruce himself - Jason snorted. "Just hurry up and change here." 

Tim blinked owlishly at him, pale in the face and grip tight on the bag's strap. "What the fuck? No. I'm changing in my room."

 

An opportunity for teasing. Perfect, for one, but why was he so bothered by this? Jason tilted his head back, grinning wide with a curved brow. "You hiding something? We're both dudes - it's nothing I haven't seen before." He knew his expression became more crooked as he said, "Unless Timothy Drake-Wayne is body shy? Nervous around me, perhaps? Or are you _really_ hiding something~?"

 

Before he knew it, Tim was in his dark room and slamming the door shut so forcefully the entire wall shook. Jason howled with laughter at the choked, high pitch bellow behind the wood. "FUCK OFF!!"

  


**\+ +**

  


Central Gotham was, quite frankly, a large area; especially the way Tim mapped it, using Finger River and the Sprang as borders. Even if he did triangulate a general location, it wasn’t specific enough. All he managed to confirm with 100% confidence was that it _wasn’t_ in Upper East Side, cutting Central in half. They split up.

Jason took to the Robinson Park-Gotham University side of things while Tim scouted Coventry. The comms were silent between them, which made things even more difficult; Jason had no clue what he was supposed to be looking for. Tagging? A big neon sign? A suspicious bastard that was just the smallest bit more suspicious than usual? Tim never clarified.

Instead of wasting valuable energy, the outlaw settled for waiting it out. Dropped down like a pin on a map, he sat along a roof ledge that granted him a 360-degree view of the area. No Black Bat in sight. No _Bat_. Gotham U was the only point of interest but there was no way that could be their objective. Someone else would’ve realized.

It felt like restocking. He sat there, toeing the line between wary and bored as he made sure his guns were clean and loaded. Made sure he didn’t have any loose threads on the seam of his pants. Triple checked the straps of his shin plates. 

  


Like a passing spectre, Tim’s voice was clear in his ear.

“Brace.”

 

“Brace for what—”

He saw a faint, warm glow illuminate the north east, causing Jason to roll onto his feet. A streak of pastel flames, a _beacon_ , erupted like a volcano at Coventry’s commercial district line. Connected to nothing, it burned for three seconds before dissipating from the horizon. 

It had been a mixture of soft greens, yellows, and oranges. Maybe it wasn’t fire, though… It didn’t look quite right. It didn’t have the same sort of “density” or uniformity og regular fire, faint yet sharp all at once. Certainly not natural by any sense of the word, but distinct.

 

He muttered a soft, “What the fuck” under his breath, not quite expecting a response.

 

“Did you see it?”

 

See it—

“Of course I did, you kidding me? The whole of Gotham probably did too!” Even as he spoke, Jason rushed towards the source in a large arch over the streets. “What was that, Replacement?”

 

“Candlewick.”

 

Oh, so he wasn’t going to get an actual answer, was he? Mr. Short-Answers-Only. Normally, Jason would let it go - spare himself the headache of shaking a straight response from Tim’s lips - but this didn’t sit well with him. It was, as he figured, a beacon, one that was drawing him towards something _specific_. Something Tim _wanted_ him to follow.

But a beacon didn’t just serve their purpose. It also demanded attention from anyone that dared to notice, that saw the soft illumination flicker in and out of existence. It was suspicious all on its own.

 

Kicking up dust with his landing, two streets away from the site, Jason straightened his back. “Candlewick,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

A speck of red in the distance glided over rooftops before dipping on the opposite side of the source, out of view behind the buildings. He heard a grunt over the line - a rough landing. Must’ve misjudged the distance...somehow…

“Don’t fuck with me, Replacement, just spit it out or I’m gonna dive into that alley with you and kick your pearly whites in.”

 

“Meta,” said Tim after a while. There was a distant clink of a grapple claw gripping onto stone. “He’s a new mask, got too close to our case and stirred up things with Ibanescu. Forced him to back off but he insisted on doing a final sweep. Wouldn’t get much closer than confirming our target and setting off a flare.”

  


Great. Fucking _great_. Jason nearly threw off his helmet, desperate to rip the earpiece out of his head and disconnect entirely.

The whole point of teaming up with Tim - with Red Robin - was to keep everyone out. And that meant _everyone_. A meta that set off flares was the biggest middle-finger in Jason’s face. It felt like his back was exposed.

If it had been a Bat, then at least Jason knew what to expect.  
How to deflect.  
And, more importantly, how to disappear.

But this guy? This “Candlewick”? A rogue piece of the puzzle. For all they knew, Candlewick was with _Pagliaccio Viola_. He was a liability and a risk. He was a wrench in Jason’s fairly well-oiled machine. It completely threw off his guard, especially hearing this from Tim.

 

Distracted by his inner turmoil the outlaw failed to notice the exact moment Red Robin returned to the rooftops, missed the way he swung his arm toward a stocky, locally-owned bank with a flat roof and let these small, hockey puck-sized disks sail between them. Tim stood like a ghost afterwards, facing the bank and, in turn, Jason as well.

His tone was almost gentle, so soft that it was like he dropped the cowl for a moment.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Tim said. “He doesn’t know you’re involved. He doesn’t know what’s going on - we haven’t even spoken face to face, just written messages over an encrypted frequency not even B could trace back. What he _does_ know—”

Jason’s head snapped to attention.

“—is that he’s on someone else’s turf. He’s not one of Gotham’s resident protectors. Not like me. He’s not just some idiot kid in a costume; he _knows_ he has no say on what he can and can’t interfere with.” A pause, a moment where Tim lifted his head and looked towards Jason. “I’ve already threatened to kick his ass anyways.”

 

A breathy laugh escaped the outlaw before he could stop it, head shaking in disbelief.

 

“I can be intimidating too, Hood. I could bring you down if I wanted.”

 

No, he wasn’t entirely comforted by Tim’s explanation, but at least he felt reassured that the teen took the necessary precautions. Even if his back truly was exposed, someone else was there. Like, sincerely and truly there.

Taking a breath, he finally eyed the bank. “Kind of a stupid place for a “hideout”, dontcha think?”

 

Then again, it was locally owned. One of those obscure places probably run by old-ass accountants that didn’t follow the same regimen as a typical corporation. At the same time, it couldn’t afford the same grade of security as most banks; he could tell as much just by looking at it. It wouldn’t be hard to break in uncontested.

The lights were off on the second floor, off on the first. Completely innocuous to passersby and subtle - nothing spectacular or worth a second glance. Coventry seemed to operate a lot like Burnley, or even Crime Alley in the sense that not many people stayed out past a certain time unless they were up to varying degrees of no-good. Probably. That was his assessment at first glance.

Without warning, Tim was suddenly moving, dropping from his building to the roof of the bank, tucking into a tight, soundless roll. He propped up in a kneel after recovering his bearings and focused on the gauntlet of his left arm. A faint blue glow highlighted the features of the cowl. Must’ve been a screen, or a display of some kind.

 

Jason’s landing wasn’t nearly as silent, having crossed a bigger distance and giving his grapple so much slack that he was able to land on his feet without issue. It made the teen flinch in surprise but he didn’t say anything.

Not too useful at the moment, the outlaw crossed his arms, watching Tim like a hawk. The kid had a lot more twitches and backtracks with his fingers, most of the time held a good few centimeters away from the device imbedded in his suit. Like he wasn’t certain, unwilling to fully commit to an action unless it completed a specific goal. It was kind of weird to watch, really.

Shouldn’t this have been routine, whatever _this_ was? Wasn’t Tim used to this? He didn’t have the excuse of his sick leave to fall back on either.

 

Tim didn’t lift his head, saying, “There’s nobody upstairs.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Radio waves.”

 

He offered nothing else, no other explanation. Jason was definitely smart too, but not a mindreader; he couldn’t figure out the _fuck_ Tim meant with something as vague as “radio waves”.

 

Nudging the teen’s shin with the toe of his boot, Jason leaned closer. “FM or AM?”

 

Naturally, a hand swatted at his ankle. “It’s like an aircraft radar,” Tim briskly explained, “using ultralow radio waves. Can pass through walls, pinpoint movement. There’s none.”

 

“So the second floor’s clear.” Jason turned slightly, surveying the rooftop in search of an easy entry point. No skylight, no door, nothing super useful that stuck out. There was, however, a roof access hatch, painted over in the same color as the roof itself and difficult to distinguish in the dark.

He made his way over, taking a quick, passing look at the rusted padlock keeping it shut. Either the owners never considered it a danger to not have it locked on the inside (if they had to get out in a hurry, then the windows were their only option) or it was something they never bothered with in the first place.

Undoing it was child’s play.

Slowly, he grabbed the edge and pushed it back. A wave of warm air blew against the exposed flesh of his forearms, sending chills down his back. There was no ladder, just a far drop into a building with tall ceilings. Jason could hear voices far, far away, likely from the first floor. It sounded aggressive just through tone alone; if they didn’t hurry, they’d be missing the party.

  


He only called for Tim once before dropping feet-first through the opening. Unlike his landing on the roof, this time Jason was careful, landing on the balls of his feet and using the complete motion of his own body, muscles rolling like languid waves under the skin. There was little more than a soft tap of noise, form held low.

Gradually rising back to his full height, he was well aware of Tim’s delayed arrival. The rustle of a thick cape behind him, the low, loose crouch with hands at his sides just barely dangling over the floor. All slick and picturesque like someone was watching. Typical Bat-like behavior.

Aesthetically though? Kinda cool. Jason did it too sometimes, he just never had a cape to add to the vibe.

 

The voices were certainly louder now, a mere decibel below screaming. A mix of accents muddled the words almost completely, making it difficult to get a full read on the situation. Tim had yet to unfold from his landing. “If we stay up here,” he said, “we remain undetected. Could be easily spotted if we get into view, but then we can get an idea of what we’re doing next.”

When Jason paused, he added, “Obviously we can’t just write this off as recon.”

 

“Huh. Didn’t know you could be reasonable.” Jason nearly knocked him over with a pat on the shoulder as he moved away, following a dim light towards a thin hall. “We’re going downstairs. Do we have a map of the building?”

Tim didn’t attempt to redirect him, instead following close behind. “First floor contains the vaults, reception desks, a few selective consultation rooms,” he listed off, “while the second floor is situated like a loft, more like an indoor balcony, acting as private offices and a base for the servers. Big staircase connects the two ends of the balcony and meets in the middle, but we’re… You’re on track for the smaller access well. This streaks down along the side and opens up in either a consultation room or the janitor’s closet.”

By the musty odor of old mops and Dawn sanitizer wafting through the vents along the jaw of his helmet, it was obvious which of the two it was once they were standing in the tight corridor. Grinning in spite of himself, Jason took the stairs two at a time. He commented over his shoulder, “Nothing like goin’ back to the closet, amirite?” Tim didn’t share the same amusement. He hardly even reacted, the damn buzzkill...

 

The janitor’s closet was incredibly cramped despite having access to its own staircase and the main floor. Tim was pressed tightly against his back, using his arms as a cushion between their bodies. Jason had his own hands braced securely on the door opposite them. Any unplanned movement could knock against rickety shelves and give away their position. They were close to their target now; Jason wasn’t going to risk talking until they had a better idea of how much distance was between them and a bunch of angry gangsters. That meant he couldn’t comment on the fact that Tim was shaking straight through the outlaw’s armor. 

Did something spook him, or was he completely overwhelmed? Or was it maybe some new contraption like those portable radio wave emitter-things? It slipped from his mind when Tim drummed his fingers against the elder’s back. Soft, softer than even a whisper, he said, “They’re arguing among themselves—”

No wonder Jason hadn’t noticed it right away. The blend of Cantonese, Romanian, and even scattered English made it difficult to separate speech from background noise.

“—so now is probably the best time to orient ourselves. See where they are. Get out of this mousetrap..”

 

He didn’t respond verbally. Instead, Jason extended his right leg back and gingerly bumped his heel into Tim’s shin - a sign that he understood.

Proceeding with caution, he tried adjusting himself better. They were lucky that the door opened outward, and that the hinges were properly cared for. Jason tested a crack at first, catching sight of the empty entryway. 

The door swung further before he saw long shadows stretching across the floor. Muddled silhouettes and figures of men cast by a dim light that quite clearly never reached the street. He wasn’t sure someone looking _in_ would notice it - especially not through the tinted windows.

Further still and he could step out onto the polished floor, tucked behind a couch used to distinguish the lobby from the rest of the arrangement. There was a lingering hold on the hem of his jacket but it disappeared quickly. Slow like ink, both ravens crept out of the closet. 

  


Now, Jason could see the division between the Neon Hounds and Ibanescu crime family. Not ethnically either, but _literally_. Even though their voices were raised, fangs bared and fists clenched, there was an empty strip of wood paneling left between the two groups. Someone stood on the interior balcony with a bright lantern held up by their head.

He couldn’t determine features or details, or barely make out the outfit except for high-ankled, pinstriped violet pants - _Viola_ \- that he hardly noticed past the rail lining the balcony. Whoever they were, they simply allowed the argument to continue. They didn’t move. Didn’t raise the black-painted megaphone dangling in their opposite hand.

Paranoia rising, Jason was desperately scouring the lobby for some kind of clue as to what the hell was happening. No one was going for the vaults - an easy target - or actually throwing punches - something he expected. In fact, he’d even dare to call it docile behavior, like no one dared to stray closer together under the gaze of the man overlooking it all.

  


Romanian was close to Italian, but the outlaw was having trouble translating. He snapped a hand back and grabbed Tim’s forearm, yanking him forcefully towards himself. He didn’t realize the risk until he noticed Tim had clapped his free hand over his mouth, digging his front teeth into the flesh of his index. Only reason there wasn’t the thud of movement was because Tim additionally splayed his legs beneath him to catch the thrown weight.

He must’ve startled the poor kid… The poor kid who had likely been scanning and analyzing every detail available.

 

“What are they saying?” Jason gruffly demanded. His mouth felt dry like cotton, even as he pulled Tim closer to him. Bit by bit, the more he fought for clarity the more he realized that the ones speaking English were the more calm of the bunch.  
Though, “calm” was an exaggeration. 

 

“Accusations,” was the response. “They’re panicked, but they’re not… They’re not outright blaming the Ibanescu. They’re confused. Some of them are trying to throw slurs at the man on the second floor, demanding to know who he is, but others are straight up scared.” Tim crept closer of his own accord. “Should we move…?”

 

It was hard to swallow. Hell, it was hard to even breathe. In through the nose and out through the mouth, repeat. Whatever got him to calm down. 

If they got closer, they risked exposure, but it didn’t seem like anyone was in their right mind to actually realize. But Jason couldn’t see the ringleader’s face. Couldn’t tell where he was looking. What was he revealing on that mug of his? Was he pleased with this development?

Wordlessly, the outlaw advanced, creeping along the far corner of the floorplan. They were stuck on the same side the lantern was held - no way would he risk darting to the opposite side just for a glimpse - but it was safer to have themselves be masked by the light’s glare.

Tim trailed behind by a few paces, his steps much shorter and slower as if he walked on eggshells. Something was off with his movements— No, something _continued_ to be off. If it was weird in the Penthouse, it was concerning now.  
The kid was off his game when Jason really, _really_ needed him to be on top of it - for both their sakes, to make up the parts he was bringing down. But, really, could you blame him? His paranoia was doing him in while his partner was past the waranty’s expiration date. They were two flies in a hornet’s nest, at risk of being ripped apart with one wrong move.

 

The Ibanescu didn’t see him or his shiny red dome.  
The Neon Hounds were completely distracted.

 

And then Tim stopped moving entirely. His head popped up like a gopher out of a burrow, eyes wide under the cowl as his attention was completely snatched by something _someone_ said.

His mouth moved. Slowly.

  


Jason strained to focus.

  


‘ _Doors…._ ’

  


‘ _Locked…._ ’

 

If the doors were locked, if someone was bringing them up in the midst of all this chaos, then this was new information.

If the doors were locked, how did anyone get in?

There was no draft - no broken windows - and the rooftop hatch had been closed.

‘ _A setup—_ ’ But Jason didn’t get to voice his observation.

 

The sharp, shrieking whine of a megaphone cut through the din, earsplitting and nauseating all at once. He went still as stone, every fiber of his being willing him to keep his head turned away from the balcony. He stood in such a place that the glare of the lantern kept him hidden from the ringleader’s gaze, but Tim was in plain sight, masked only by the thick cape draped around his body.

Neither moved when the distorted voice of the man behind it all, the _Pagliaccio Viola_ , rang out. It had an air of familiarity but he… He knew it wasn’t right. He knew his anxiety was just making him believe that.

It didn’t help that Pagliaccio Viola led with a chuckle.

 

“Well, this certainly was entertaining while it lasted, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

A Gotham accent. Probably… He wasn’t sure, but there weren't any notable inflections to hint at an Italian origin.

 

The lantern swung theatrically, far too fast to grant Jason a proper look at the man before it returned to its spot. “I’m not going to drag this out for much longer,” Pagliaccio Viola said, his tone shrill in a gleeful sort of way that made the ravioli in the outlaw’s stomach sink like bricks. “I’m _so_ glad you could all make it. I would offer some cute little sandwiches for you but, see, the food budget went into this fancy bullhorn I’ve got myself. A good fiscal decision on my part honestly.”

He spoke at his own pace. Took his time, calm and unbothered by the amount of people in the room. Most of which were undoubtedly armed, yet he still acted like this was a children’s assembly.

 

Someone, some poor fool, chimed out among the crowd. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

 

“ _ME_?! Little ole me??” Another laugh, but it was so sudden that the megaphone mutilated the noise all together. “I’m the one with a vision. I’m the one with his eyes set on the sights ahead.”

He stopped. All that filled the silence was the broadcast of soft static. No one wanted to talk. And they were smart to bite their tongues.

 

“Isn’t that right, boys?”

 

Jason was all too aware of the distance between him and Tim. It felt as if it was swelling, expanding like noxious gas until it would be instant death trying to cross it.

 

“Little _pettirosso_ , are you listening to me?”

  


Little _**pettirosso**_.

  


Little robin.

  


Somehow, he was a ghost, unnoticed by every single goddamn soul in that building. Directed by the lantern that swung like a spotlight, all heads swiveled to focus on the vigilante crouched behind the masses. Tim wore this dumbfounded look on his face, borderline shocked-borderline disbelieving. 

“Oh?” Pagliaccio Viola cooed with interest but the megaphone made it sound like the purr of a broken engine. The balcony rail creaked as he leaned his weight against it, one foot kicked up behind him. “Perhaps you didn’t notice me standing here, Robin,” he tried again, “or maybe you really weren’t paying attention. Are you listening?”

  


With a hand swinging up to the holster around his torso, now it was _his_ turn to have the light put on him. This just made it even harder for Jason to see the man’s face. Even so, he knew Pagliaccio Viola was smiling. “I know you’re here too, Mister Red Hood, please wait your turn.”

It was an order.

What could he _possibly_ have that would lead him to believe Jason would obey? Perhaps it was the dozens upon dozens of pairs of eyes now trained on him, or maybe there was something going on he had yet to realize.

He found his hand around the grip when a new sound cut through the thunder in his head.

  


“Don’t.”

  


Head snapping to the left, his eyes found Tim again.

  


Tim, who wasn’t looking at him, or even lifting his head to eye the balcony.  
Tim, who stared blankly ahead.

  


“Don’t,” he repeated, and it was like his mouth never moved. “Look for an exit..” There was a trace of hesitance in his voice. One that made Jason uncertain.

“Kid—”

 

“Prioritize, Hood.”

 

Right. Priorities. He was trained by the goddamn _Batman_. Those were the skills that were keeping him afloat as it was. They were what he fell back on. He was grappling with rising paranoia towards the _Pagliaccio Viola_ , the kind that brought with it old burns and the sear of bile in his throat, but he didn’t have the evidence to warrant those fears. In fact, he had evidence proving the _contrary_.

As Tim strode between the Ibanescu and Neon Hounds, a leather-clad Moses parting the Red Sea, Jason shifted gears. Exits were one thing. Obstacles were another. Assess the latter to benefit the former or you lower your odds.

 

The gangs were the least of his concerns; they were scattered-brained enough as it was, and the Ibanescu, a crime family leagues above a meager street gang, didn’t have their main figureheads present. He could assume the Hounds were organized the same way.

Neither could be held responsible for this gathering. At the same time, this very moment likely defined for many just how innocent the other party was in the slaughter of their brothers.

So then, what of the Pagliaccio Viola? Was he alone?

A quick survey of the surroundings said it was borderline impossible. The lantern may have completely masked the ringleader’s identity but it couldn’t hide his underlings. Jason manually triggered the night vision capabilities of the helmet and, though the sudden flare of green was blinding, once he adjusted there were quite a few people that had barely missed his attention. 

There was a male figure towards the farthest end of the balcony, arms tucked passively behind his back. He also had a partner on his right. Both kept their stares straight like they were the secret service, taking no interest in the happenings of the main floor or anything else. Jason couldn’t quite make out the details of their attire or gear, but at a passing glance it didn’t seem like much.

A blatant red flag in his book.

Scanning the front corners of the bank, he found people that moved near the doors. Arms twitched and eventually they backed away from the handles, retreating to the distant right corner. Bracing. One put a hand to their ear, jaw shifted with speech.

 

And Pagliaccio Viola laughed, the sudden outburst peaking the megaphone’s frequency response. 

 

“I’m not a monster,” he suddenly claimed, shaking the lantern for emphasis. Jason finally withdrew his gun from its holster, unnoticed - for now. “I can be reasonable. I can be understanding. I’m practically a _Saint_!”

Behind the glare of artificial light, the opposite arm brandishing the megaphone gestured outward, towards one of his lackeys that waited patiently. Their own arm came up, close to the chest, fist balled and clearly gripping something.

The suited man continued. “And because I’m such a saint, I’m giving you all… Let’s see… How does ten seconds sound?”

Panic rippled across the gathered bodies like waves of the Pacific beginning to churn under the pressure of an oncoming storm. Ten seconds, they all seemed to be thinking. Ten seconds for what? 

 

“Ten seconds is _plenty_ of time to get out of the blast zone, I think.”

 

Before the panic spiked into terror, before the words “Time starts now” even left the ringleader’s mouth, Jason lunged towards the center of the floor.

It was just a bomb hidden from wandering eyes. A common risk factor in this line of work. He only had seconds.

 

Ten whole seconds.

 

Practically bowling his weight into Tim, he took aim for Pagliaccio Viola, face and features obscured by the lantern’s glow. He couldn’t aim for the detonator - no, it was quite clear by how the lackey’s arm was lowered that it was all set on an automatic timer - so he aimed for the _ridiculous_ Bass Pro Shop lamp.

It took one bullet to shatter the thing, one bullet to send Pagliaccio Viola stumbling back in surprise as shards of a broken fluorescent bulb pierced through gloves. Jason needed an ID, an identifier so he could perform the biggest manhunt ever once the night came to a close. All he needed was his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in lighting.  
All he needed was to ignore the criminals with broken ankles and dislocated knees, brought down by the stampede that still swarmed around him. Even those that weren’t hurt were all too slow with their escape.

 

Before he could take that second, debilitating shot on his phantom target, hands shoved against his ribs. _Hard_.

 

Footing lost beneath his weight, Jason spun with the momentum, turning his gun on his new attacker out of reflex. Tim was hardly looking at him, one hand at his waist fumbling in search of the grapple. “Basement!” he shouted, “Go up!" There was no time and he clearly knew it. Could sense it from years upon years of experience crammed into habits and routines.

 

When it happened, it was a cold glass chime silencing an uproar. A moment of stillness. Jason heard the first explosive detonate beneath layers of cement and earth. Muffled, heavy, shaking the ground beneath his boots until the second went off. Closer, louder and more deeply rooted in his chest.

Pagliaccio Viola said ten seconds. It was more like thirteen in total with the chain detonation. Still, not enough time to act. Never was.

Tim seemed to realize this too. He made no effort to leave his spot; trying to move meant he would risk getting a larger surface area caught in the blast. Essentially, more damage. The only thing he could do was shield his head with his arms and keep his knees loose in anticipation of the upward force - just as the ground beneath him started to give way.

 

Getting his own grapple required a quick snap of motion. That's it. It’d be cutting it close - so close his boots would burn and the seam of his pants would singe - but Jason could easily make it onto the balcony with Pagliaccio Viola, or the support beams in the high ceiling. Anywhere that was further out of the blast radius.

He didn’t, though. As if the muscles in his calves were spring-loaded, he launched forward. With the floor’s collapse, heat, smoke, and debris shot up like rockets. Rising, flaming tongues lapped against the flesh of Jason’s forearm. Something heavy, likely a chunk of broken concrete, slammed into the extended limb and something gave way to the rush. But none of it stopped him from moving with his full reach.

 

They were falling, weightless in the drop, but Jason temporarily recognized the mass of thick leather in his hand. A tether to Tim.

Despite his own determination to not let go until the two reached the bottom - however far it was - he couldn’t keep his grip. The new, growing pain in his arm was just too much. As the world came up to meet them and the others that came falling down, Tim was ripped from his hands.

 

####  _**SPLASH**_

_  
_

His body was completely swallowed by a nauseatingly warm, suspiciously gritty liquid. The helmet kept water from flowing in but it certainly couldn’t keep the smell out; he knew exactly where he was and almost gagged at the thought. Despite the sewer water’s natural cushion, the pure momentum of Jason’s fall had him slamming his helmet against concrete, head rattling like a maraca before he could resurface. 

The pull of the sewer line dragged him through its strong current, fighting every action of resistance he made to ground himself or catch something along the way. He couldn’t see; the helmet stopped giving him a clear picture of anything other than glitches or static over an otherwise heavily dimmed image.

It must’ve been the tail end of a cycle because the current ebbed away soon after Jason managed to orient himself. The level receded to his knees. He could finally stand.  
But he wasn’t alone, nor was he actually far from the drop point.

Other people were splashing around. He could hear the grunts and exertions of a sloppy fist fight further upstream, close to the origin of the explosion. Struggling to remove his helmet with one hand, the outlaw tossed it onto the maintenance walkway on his right before charging blindly through the darkness well before his eyes could adjust.

 

By the time he could see figures among the shadows, rage boiled in his stomach. Most of the crooks caught in the blast were either incapacitated already, swept deeper into the pipe system, or straight up dead. There was one who looked like he couldn’t tell his lefts from rights, something thick and dark leaking from both nostrils as he grappled with a smaller frame.

He had managed to get fistfuls of the vigilante’s cowl, loosened by the flush of water forced through it before his terrible fighting and lack of coordination caused him to twist the leather to the side. 

Judging solely by the way Tim was moving, knelt with sewer water up to his sternum and clearly restrained by the gangster’s weight on his water-logged cape, the cowl was suffocating him. He flailed, landed solid hits, but his attacker was in a fit of shock anyways. He likely couldn’t even register what was happening until Jason marched up and slammed his fist into the man’s throat a tad bit too hard.

Something cracked and the man choked, head flying back as his entire body went limp against the force. 

 

Jason quickly hoisted Tim up with his good hand hooked under the younger’s arm. A different kind of panic had clearly sunken in because Tim’s own legs refused to support him, his body language screaming desperation in a way his silent voice couldn’t. He didn’t even appear to realize that he wasn’t being attacked anymore. 

With fingers that felt thick and immobile like frozen Polish sausages, resisting the sharp burn of strained tendons along the wrist, Jason did what he could to pry the cowl off. It took a while using that bad hand of his - so much so that the outlaw noticed the man he launched was no longer responsive - but soon Tim heaved in a fresh breath, whatever rigidity existed in his body dispersing immediately.

Breathing his own sigh of relief, he wrapped his arm around Tim’s back, dragging both of their weary weights over to the walkway. He still couldn’t see - it appeared that the best he would get, even after adjusting, was deep darkness and the occasional gray form - so it was like the blind leading the blind; he prayed that whatever omniscient force was out there would keep them from slipping on some gross-ass muck before they could recover. When he finally found the concrete, patting to make sure there was no broken glass strewn across it, slowly, he helped Tim sit down. 

 

Tim wouldn’t move, though, keeping himself so close that Jason wondered if pushing him away would sound like velcro. He coughed wetly. “J… Jay..?”

 

“Hey babybird…” Jason exhaled through his nose, voice low as he ran his good hand over the back of Tim’s neck. “No names while we’re workin’...” 

 

All he got in response was a thick grumble. Whatever - his heart wasn’t in it anyways.

No, instead his attention was focused on the situation at hand. They were traversing the sewers without a beacon or guiding light. His helmet was broken - a minor inconvenience considering he had a stash - so their view would remain pretty limited. The maintenance lights dotted along the walls were a joke, either lacking power entirely or missing a bulb. They were useless, just like Jason was starting to feel.

Something was wrong with his arm and he knew it. From the way even the slightest graze of contact against his hip sent pain splintering through every nerve receptor in his forearm, to the numb throb in the wrist from continuous strain, it was either a fracture or a break. His radial was probably fine considering he could still move his elbow - a bonus. Honestly, it could’ve been much worse.

 

 

Did he mention that he hated the sewers?

Because he did. He really, really did.

 

After giving the back of Tim’s exposed neck a squeeze, he spoke carefully. “Talk to me a little bit,” he tried. “Didja hit your head? Anything broken?” Tim had somehow been so perfectly positioned over the center of the blast that, for a moment, Jason wondered if Pagliaccio Viola was expecting them and intentionally kept the space clear, or if it was purely coincidence.

The Robins were never known for having good luck to begin with.

  


The answer was slow, complemented by even slower movements. Tim dragged shaky hands over his own thighs, prodded at his abdomen and chest, then cupped his sagging head around the ears. “....’m fine…”

 

“You don’t sound too sure there.”

  


“What am I supposed to say..?” He briefly pushed forward, head still pressed against Jason’s torso before continuing to rely on him for support, as if his energy fluctuated in waves. “Everything hurts.. Everything’s too… _loud_.”

 

‘ _Concussed_ ,’ guessed Jason. Other than that, it didn’t seem like whatever pained Tim was of the utmost concern. The explosives hadn't been too powerful to begin with, requiring more than just one to get the job done. If the one that went off below the first floor had been fixed to the ceiling, Tim would've lost his legs; if the waterway hadn't been in the middle of a cycle, they all would've broken something vital on the debris that fell through. Not bad in a day's work. 

“The sewers are Killer Croc-sized,” Jason offered, “so everything echoes. Can you hear me clearly?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

  


"Cool. At least you can listen to my sweet, sultry voice until we get out."

 

"Ah." Tim shook his head almost thoughtfully, hands plopping back into his lap as he leaned away. "Never mind. The sweet, sultry sound of tinnitus is louder."

 

While the younger kept his head lowered and reoriented himself, Jason sorted through the facts, assumptions, and options safe within the confines of his own skull. They were operating with very little guarantee that Pagliaccio Viola actually left the premises. Little guarantee that Gotham PD wasn’t on their way; the probability that either raven could connect to Oracle’s network to check was low because Tim would’ve already done so. He tried to look towards their drop point, scanning for any signs that there was still an entrance to be found or if it had all collapsed behind them. Maybe filled with the same debris scattered throughout the water. Realistically, they couldn’t go up, so that only left going deeper.

He didn’t have the pipeline memorized. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had to slosh through the sewers. “We better get moving,” was all Jason offered before he began to make the slow trek downstream, pausing to grab his helmet along the way. This gave Tim enough time to get onto his feet and join him.

  


Jason realized it would be slow going when he acknowledged the fact that he really, _really_ couldn’t see. The sewer water had a shine to it, obvious signs of movement to the inky gray making it easy to separate from the concrete - a bonus, second only to the fact that Gotham operated on combined sewer system, which meant it wasn’t purely waste that he was stewing away in. 

The lack of division between anything made the first crossroads overwhelming as hell when they reached it. He couldn’t tell if the one going right hit a T-intersection or if the one on the left shifted to a new layout, or if the one directly ahead dropped into oblivion. Even when Jason tried to visualize a map of the city overhead, there was no clear answer as to which path he should take.

It didn’t help that the pain in his right arm was becoming harder to ignore.

 

Tim’s dense, waterlogged cape suddenly dragged against the outlaw’s knee when he passed. He ignored both the left AND the right without a second glance and marched straight onward. It was startling how his form disappeared in the dark, his back offering no other accenting signs or colors to differentiate him from the damp environment.

Even though Jason followed close behind, it was...different. The past five minutes of walking had mostly consisted of frequent glances backwards to make sure the teen’s lumbering form hadn’t fallen behind. His injuries must’ve been bothering him just as much as Jason’s was because, up until that moment, he had been as slow as molasses. Like he didn’t trust his steps to support him.

 

Thankfully Mr. Detective’s choice didn’t throw them over a drop and the road ahead remained fairly direct. At one point, Tim said, “Watch out, there’s something coming up on your ten.”

 

To which Jason replied, seconds before Tim’s dumb ass tripped and nearly faceplanted into the wall, “No shit, the tunnel is curving.”  
Admittedly, he wasn’t paying attention and would’ve done the same without the advanced notice. Continuing on their way, though, Jason realized that at whatever distance Tim had been from the wall, it _still_ wasn’t clear that the path changed. It must’ve been a miracle he noticed it at all.

 

At a fork in their path, Jason took the lead, heading for the tunnel on the right. It was a grip on his jacket that kept him from getting too far. Eyes wide and brow furrowed, he snapped back to attention. “It’s this way,” he said simply.

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“The Sprang is this way.”

 

“There’s a lot of rushing water that way.” Maintaining his grip all the while, Tim started to veer for the opposite route. “It dips into a new sector that’s over capacity and in the middle of a routine flush. We’d get swept away.”

 

He let Tim pull him - hell, he even tried digging his heels into the concrete just to make it difficult - because he was at a loss. It certainly wasn’t the most far fetched theory in the world. But, even when he strained his ears to listen closely, it took Jason a solid minute to hear anything at all. The sound was too distant for him to draw any sort of conclusion from it.

 

“There’s an opening on our left with a continuous airflow,” said Tim as he, once more, took the lead. “Higher chance of actually leading us out.”

 

This proved to be another reason why you team up with a detective; and the surprises didn’t just stop there.

 

They had been walking for what felt like hours in silence, both of them injured, blind, and vulnerable. Even so, Jason never would’ve guessed he was anxious until he heard the sound of something heavy smacking multiple times against wet concrete, resembling scattered, uneven footsteps somewhere behind him.

Instantly, the helmet once kept secure between his arm and torso dropped into the water like a deadweight. Jason spun so fast that he lost his direction, the darkness only exaggerating the panic when he pointed a gun into the void. The steps didn’t stop, each shallow splash like needles in his ear. Before he could even provide a word of warning, he heard Tim let out a sigh.

 

He said, “Rats. There are a lot of smaller pipelines that feed into the tunnels, and rodents use them like roads. Or it could be a ninja turtle - though that’s more of an NYC thing.”

 

It didn’t keep Jason from firing a shot in the dark, providing a flash that briefly illuminated the scene and proved Tim right; there was a gaggle of rotund rats on the maintenance path that scattered with the bang. As he lowered the weapon, Jason reminded himself of the countless breathing exercises at his disposal.

He trusted whatever the hell came out of the younger’s mouth from that moment onward. So long as one of them could navigate out of the sewers - upstream or downstream - he didn’t really care what was said. If Tim asked him to do a cartwheel through trash, he’d do it.

 

So when Tim’s voice raised an octave, tone light as they pushed onward through the twists and turns, long after they left the water behind and the tunnel rounded out, Jason paid attention. “Cars in the distance,” he commented as the path curved left. “We’re definitely getting close - the Sprang, huh?”

Not only that, but Jason relished in the fact that there was a breach in the darkness. Natural moonlight and the artificial glow of a living city brought life to the muted gray of the sewer walls. The more light he absorbed, the more clearly he was able to see; when the gray became tinted with blue, there was nothing but relief.

As they got closer to the exit, he finally heard the sounds of cars speeding over the bypass. In the back of his mind the outlaw wondered how Tim managed to hear it before him but, at this point, he didn't really care. With a small kick in his step, Jason overtook the teen.

 

There was a small aqueduct no wider than a sedan that separated the sewer tunnel from the river itself. Graffiti decorated the concrete slopes and trash was left in heaps in every direction, some of which included a broken skateboard. Schwartz bypass was in sight, Arkham even further behind.

Jason stood under the glow of a low-hanging moon, stretching his good arm as high as he could with fingers splayed. It felt nice to be able to breathe in the humid, untainted air of spring, let it fill his lungs and wash away the last two and a half hours. Sure, he’d probably have to dump literally _everything_ on his person, incinerate it or bleach it beyond recognition, but that was a problem for future-Jason. Current-Jason was living in the moment.

The only good thing from the mission was that the Neon Hounds and Ibanescu would probably drift apart once more. Whether that had anything to do with the masks making a guest appearance was up for debate.  
Pagliaccio Viola made himself known. He called out and targeted a Bat. Calling him “problematic” would be severely understating just how much of a pain in the ass future follow-ups could be.

Again, future-Jason could deal with all that. Current-Jason wanted a shower, a cigarette, and a god damned sling for his arm.

 

Turning when he heard Tim step out of the tunnel, the words Jason planned to say died on the tip of his tongue.

 

The immediate response was confusion. 

Between the two of them, Tim had been the one to navigate the sewers and pick the correct route. Obviously, Tim had seen the light at the end of the tunnel. _Obviously_ he knew that they reached the exit. That they were out.

  


Right..?

 

Maybe it was a weird trick to rely on his senses that he learned from a shaman healer in Tibet. Being a Bat, that made the most sense in Jason’s mind. 

Either way, Tim’s eyes were shut and his head was lowered. His hands hung by his hips but the left kept extending outward, the action small and maintained below the waist like he was reaching for an item he couldn’t see but didn’t want to be noticed in the process. When it found nothing, it immediately returned to his person.

His brow arched, lips pursed in a tight line. As the silence dragged out with neither saying a word, Tim finally opened his eyes and the confusion exploded into suspicion.

 

Jason didn’t know Tim on a personal level, but he knew Red Robin.

 

And he knew that Red Robin would never take more than fifteen seconds to confirm his surroundings. He would never keep his defense so low that anyone, even a fucking _toddler_ , could get the drop on him.  
Red Robin, even if injured or concussed, wouldn’t be so slow on the uptake.

Maybe he was overthinking. Perhaps overanalyzing. Though he might’ve been exaggerating every little tick, this wasn’t new either. Jason wasn’t a fucking idiot; something had been wrong ever since the Penthouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie zowie I actually took the time to edit this to the best of my ability. I wrote it over a span of MANY days instead of my usual one or two, making changes when and where I could.
> 
>  
> 
> We made a lot of progress in some aspects. What is going to happen next, hm?


End file.
